Not This Guy!

by Glenda Sanders

“If you can stay a few minutes more, I’ll help Emma out with the syringes and vaccine.”

  “Sure,” Angelina said. “I’d be happy to stay.”

  The line held steady until five o’clock. Finally the volunteer who’d relieved Angelina gave out cards to the five people left in line and said to the last person, “You’re our last customer. After you, our clinic is officially closed.”

  The woman stood there a few minutes, looking official, shooing away last-minute stragglers, while the vet quickly finished the vaccinations.

  “That’s all, folks!” the nurse said as the last patient, a curly-tailed chow, strutted off at the end of a leash.

  Within seconds, the volunteers were busy stacking, straightening and packing. Somewhat overwhelmed by all the activity and feeling superfluous, Angelina moved out of the center of activity. She was asking herself what she was doing there when, suddenly, the vet was standing in front of her. “Thanks for filling in.”

  “I’m glad I could help,” Angelina said.

  “What did you find out about the washer?”

  “They have one. It’ll be waiting at the pickup area behind the store.”

  “Then let’s go get it,” he said.

  Angelina was sure that he didn’t mean anything when he stretched his arm across her back and rested his hand on her waist as they left the booth. It was an automatic reflex to him. He’d have done the same thing if he’d been walking with his grandmother, or his sister.

  But the gentle pressure of his hand on her waist certainly didn’t make her feel sisterly toward the man attached to the arm stretched across her back. It made her feel like a woman who’d been too long without a man’s touch, a woman hungry for physical intimacy. How easy it would be to drift closer to the male warmth of his body, to melt bonelessly into that heat and—

  She couldn’t prevent what she was feeling, but Angelina refused to dwell on it. Thinking about it would only make the situation worse.

  “My car’s parked at the other end of the shopping center,” she said, quickening her stride so that she walked right away from his loose grasp. “I’ll meet you at the pickup window.”

  “My van’s at the end of this row,” he said. “Let’s pick up the washer, then I’ll drop you off at your car on our way to your house.”

  Trapped by the logic in the suggestion, Angelina accompanied him to the van and tried to ignore how solid his chest felt against her thigh as he helped her up into the high passenger seat.

  “Are you sure you have room for a washing machine in here?” she asked, eyeing the back of the van dubiously.

  “The back seats are removable,” he said. “I’ll just stack them against the front seat and the washer will fit just fine.”

  “That sounds like a lot of trouble,” Angelina said as he started the van’s engine.

  “It’s not,” he assured her, shifting into reverse.

  Angelina peered out the side window as he skillfully maneuvered the van through the crowded parking lot.

  “Where’s Lily?” he asked after a spell of silence.

  “With her father,” Angelina replied, trying to keep the rancor out of her voice.

  Apparently she was less successful than she’d hoped. “That bad?” he asked.

  Angelina paused before answering. “He doesn’t intentionally hurt her. He just...does.”

  “Not physically?”

  “Certainly not! Do you think I’d let her go with him if I even suspected—”

  “Of course not,” he said repentantly, with a sigh of frustration. “It was a dumb thing to say.”

  “There’s the pickup dock,” Angelina said. Thank goodness.

  Ten minutes later the machine was loaded in the van and two minutes after that, Angelina was unlocking her own car. She settled into the driver’s seat and closed the door with no small measure of relief, glad to be alone, and gladder still that she hadn’t had to spend another second closed up with Dr. Calder. He was too male, and she was much too aware of it for her to feel comfortable sitting four inches away from him in a confined space.

  She started the engine, fastened her seat belt and took a steadying breath. All she had to do was drive home, get the washing machine into the house, get the veterinarian out of the house and she’d be fine. She could do laundry and watch television and make popcorn for dinner.

  Just another fun-filled Saturday night!

  They were stopped at a red light less than halfway home when he tapped his horn. Concerned, she twisted so she could see him. He was gesturing for her to pull over, pointing to the entrance of a small shopping center anchored by a supermarket. Assuming there was a problem with the washing machine, she nodded and, when the light turned green, she turned into the parking lot.

  He followed, pulled in next to her and hopped out of the van. She rolled down her window. “What’s the problem?”

  “Do you like fajitas?”

  “Fajitas?”

  “I’m starving. We just passed Casa Lupe, and I suddenly got a yen for their fajitas. Let’s go eat.”

  “I don’t—”

  “You don’t have plans for dinner, do you?”

  “No, but—I—”

  “Don’t like Mexican food?”

  “I like Mexican food just fine, but—”

  “Oh, come on. Give a guy a break. If you don’t go with me, I’ll have to go later by myself.”

  Angelina frowned, saying nothing.

  “Aren’t you just a little bit hungry?” he cajoled as if he were a kid begging to stay up late. “Casa Lupe has this ‘Fajitas for Two’ special where you get all kinds of extras. You’d be doing me a favor.”

  6

  “TOLD YOU there were great extras with the special,” Mike said, looking at Angelina across their dishes of fried ice cream—huge, cherry-topped balls of crunch-encrusted ice cream centered on cinnamon-sugared tortillas, drizzled with caramel topping and surrounded by rosettes of piped whipped cream.

  “I hope you never decide to talk me into something illegal,” she said, picking up her spoon. “I’d probably wind up in jail.”

  Mike could think of only one thing he’d like to talk Angelina into, and since she was past the age of consent, it wasn’t illegal. It was just unwise. He had the washing machine in his van to prove it.

  But it was difficult to remember how low Angelina Winters scored on his Minimum Requirements scale when she was sitting across the table from him eating fried ice cream. Unconsciously licking caramel from her top lip. Breathing—

  Angelina. Angelina Martinez Winters, he’d learned early in their conversation. The name suited her. She was an angel, all right, all sweetness and goodness, with a flash of Latin fire.

  It was almost enough to make him question the relevancy of the whole Minimum Requirements thing—until he remembered the washing machine in his van. And the soulful-eyed little girl visiting her father. God only knew what the whole story was there. Angelina tensed up worse than a cat being challenged by a dog every time the subject came up.

  “Where did you say you worked?” he asked, deliberately shifting from the brain just below his belt buckle to the one in his head.

  “Morgan Printing.”

  “Printing?” he said. Printing? “That sounds interesting.”

  “Sometimes it is. Sometimes it’s not.”

  “What do you...do you run presses?”

  “Only in a pinch,” she said, mocking his forced interest with a knowing smile. “Technically, I’m a graphic designer.”

  “That sounds important.”

  She laughed softly. “It’s not. Most of the time it’s straight typing. But every once in a while, I get to design something for a customer.”

  “Like what?”

  “Business cards. Invitations. Fliers. Menus. Announcements.”

  “What kind of announcements?”

  “Anything anyone wants to announce. Sales. Grand openings. We’re a small printer, so most of our customers are small business owners or
individuals. Some of the things we do are just plain goofy.”

  She sank her spoon into the ice cream. “One couple had adoption notices made up when they adopted a puppy from the animal shelter.”

  She raised the spoon to her mouth and savored the taste of the ice cream before swallowing it. Mike did the same with his own dessert before asking, “So how does one become a graphic designer?”

  “I was majoring in art before—” Her eyes betrayed an old hurt. “I dropped out of college when my ex-husband and I got married. I was going to help him finish getting his degree, then go back and get mine. But—” She sighed softly. “It’s the same old story. He graduated and I had a baby. I was planning on going back when Lily started school, but...I went to work instead.”

  “You haven’t given up, have you?”

  Mike could tell by the expression in her eyes that he’d hit a nerve. “College is not at the top of my list of priorities at the moment,” she told him evenly.

  “I didn’t mean that it should be,” Mike said. “It just sounded...important to you.”

  “Maybe someday,” she said. “Right now I’m building a portfolio, and in a year or two I hope to get my own equipment and work freelance out of the house.”

  “Become an independent businesswoman?”

  “I just want to be around in the afternoons when Lily decides she’s too old for after-school day care.”

  The server approached the table, asked if there was anything else they needed and left the check.

  “I should get that,” she said, oozing guilt as he picked it up.

  “Don’t be ridiculous. I owe you a meal.”

  “But...the washing machine—”

  “Are you trying to bruise my male pride?”

  The appalled expression on her face was comical. “No!”

  “Well, call me old-fashioned, but when I invite a woman to dinner, I pick up the tab.”

  * * *

  IF LITTLE PUFFS of lint under a bed were dust bunnies, the area beneath Angelina’s old washing machine was inhabited by a muck monster. Anchored in the sticky mire were a penny, a plastic finger puppet, a shirt button, an open safety pin, a lollipop stick and, as the crowning touch, a zebra-striped organza baby-doll pajama top, which had disappeared shortly after Angelina’s fourth wedding anniversary.

  “This may well be the most embarrassing moment of my life,” Angelina said.

  Mike shrugged. “Looks like what I found under my couch the last time I vacuumed.”

  Angelina bent to grab the ridiculously skimpy garment, hoping to hurl it into the basket of dirty laundry waiting its turn for the new machine, but the sheer top did not come willingly. It yielded with a wretched ripping sound. Angelina looked from it to Mike’s face and asked with a raised eyebrow, “Oh, really?”

  Mike grinned sheepishly. “Wishful thinking.”

  “This space will have to be mopped before we bring in the new machine,” Angelina said brusquely, her face still pink with embarrassment.

  Mike shrugged. “It’ll take me a while to get the new one out of the box, anyway.”

  Angelina found a mop and filled a plastic bucket with water, then attacked the offensive spot on the floor with the force and determination of a sexually deprived woman who has a sexy man in her garage.

  An old-fashioned sexy man, she reminded herself. Not that his buying dinner was any problem to her. In fact, she’d been damned relieved that he’d paid for the meal. On her budget, she didn’t care one whit about striking a blow for a woman’s equal right to pay a restaurant tab.

  But old-fashioned men liked taking charge of women, taking care of them, pampering them.

  Angelina had fallen into that trap once. She’d allowed a man to take charge. Take care of her. Pamper her. Incapacitate her. Diminish her. Stifle her. No, thank you. Not again. She wasn’t going to wake up one morning on her own, on the edge of destitution, ill-prepared to support herself and her child. She was her own woman now, doing the best she could do. She and Lily had muddled through so far, and they’d continue to manage. She might eventually fall in love, but she was not going to be dependent on any man ever again—especially a man who took pride in being old-fashioned.

  She thrust the mop into the water, then scrubbed the spot with unnecessary vigor. Now if she could just figure out what to do about the way her hormones raged every time Mike Calder got within twenty feet of her!

  He was in the garage, still pulling packing materials from the washer, when she carried the bucket out to empty it. “Lily and her friends may want to make a playhouse out of the box,” he said.

  “They’ll have a ball with it,” Angelina agreed. “Thanks for saving it.”

  Why did he have to be so thoughtful? Angelina wondered. If he weren’t so nice, maybe her heart wouldn’t race when he smiled at her. Maybe rooms wouldn’t suddenly seem too small when he walked into them. Maybe her temperature wouldn’t rise when he touched her.

  “She’s almost ready to go,” he said.

  Silence followed. Angelina watched Mike work, observing his concentration, admiring his grace of motion, reacting to his strength with awe. His hands moved deliberately, confidently, efficiently. She imagined them on her flesh, stroking, caressing, stirring up magic. She tasted desire on her tongue, wondering what it would be like if he kissed her.

  It was going to be a long half hour before she had him out of her house.

  “Do you always travel with a dolly?” she asked as he nosed the platform of the device under the machine.

  “Somebody’s always moving something,” he replied with an affable grin. “It comes in handy.”

  He maneuvered the dolly with commanding skill, getting the heavy appliance into the house without its slipping or tilting.

  “You’ve done this before,” Angelina said.

  “I worked for a moving company one summer. This is a piece of cake. You should try getting a piano up a flight of stairs.”

  “Not in this lifetime,” Angelina said.

  He positioned the machine about a foot away from the wall and picked up one of the hoses connected to the back. “Now we hook these babies up, plug it in and, presto, you’re in business.”

  Angelina felt claustrophobic suddenly. He was just too male, and she was too aware of it. His firm buttocks strained against his jeans as he bent across the washer to reach the faucets. Golden hair dusted his sturdy arms. Well-honed muscles rippled beneath the knit of his shirt as he worked. His forehead furrowed as he screwed the connectors onto the lip of the faucet.

  “Think you could rustle up a flashlight?” he asked.

  “Sure,” she said, relieved to have an excuse to leave the room.

  The flashlight was in the bedside-table drawer in her bedroom. She seized the opportunity to freshen up, splash cold water on her face and generally collect her wits before returning to the laundry room.

  “Here you go,” she said, offering him the flashlight.

  “You’re going to have to hold it for me,” he said. “I’m going to be practically standing on my head to reach the damn plug.”

  “Why?”

  “Because the cord is short and the hoses are shorter. You don’t plug it in before you get the water hoses connected and some idiot electrician thought it was cute to put the plug almost on the floor.”

  “Couldn’t you move the dryer over and go in from the side?”

  “Not unless you want to disconnect the vent hose. I wouldn’t recommend that. Old hoses tend to be brittle, so unless you want to make a run to a hardware store to replace it—”

  Angelina couldn’t help it. She giggled.

  “What?” he said, giving her a perplexed look.

  She could hardly tell him that she was captivated by his masculine approach to the situation, that she found his impatience utterly male, that his churlishness endeared him to her because it was the first hint of imperfection he’d ever allowed her to glimpse. “It just struck me as funny that plugging it in is the most challengin
g part.”

  Mike’s mouth hardened. His forehead creased and he shook his head ever so slightly, as if to say, “Women!”

  Angelina’s breath caught at the poignant familiarity of his expression. How could she know him so well when she’d spent so little time with him?

  He hitched his backside onto the washer. Then, twisting, stretching and groaning a bit, he reached behind the appliance to position the plug. “Light!” he ordered.

  Angelina suspended the flashlight over the rim of the washer, pointing downward.

  “To the right,” he instructed.

  She bent her wrist slightly.

  “More,” he said.

  She was forced to move, bodily, in his direction. Any closer and she’d be touching him, her waist against his thigh, and—

  “Another inch,” he told her.

  Gritting her teeth, Angelina pressed closer. Though she expected the reaction, it was nevertheless electric as her side pressed into Mike’s. She didn’t need wall outlets to feed the surge of pure sexual energy that coursed through her. It was a wonder the washing machine wasn’t running through sheer osmosis.

  “Good,” he said, his voice revealing the physical strain of the contorted position he was in. “Now—”

  Without warning, the washing machine sprang to life. It would be the spin cycle, Angelina thought, flailing her arm across his back to try to reach the control knob. Since Mike was trying to do the same thing, she managed only to clip his ear with the flashlight and get her arm tangled with his. Her right breast became wedged against his shoulder, and her face was practically buried in his neck, where she received a full helping of his after-shave with each breath.

  One of them, she was never sure which, succeeded in getting the knob pushed. Angelina eased away from him, but his fingers wrapped around her wrist, preventing a total retreat. He rolled until they were face-to-face and grinned like the very devil. “I guess what they say about washing machines is all true.”

  “What they say?” Angelina asked, her voice sounding thin and airy.

  “About all the erotic possibilities,” he said. His voice was anything but thin and airy. It was as heavy as rich liqueur and dripping with sensual suggestion. He was on his feet now, and standing close enough for the heat of his body to seep into hers. A smug, knowing smile formed on his lips and lust glinted in his eyes as his hands slid up her arms.