by Laura Drake
“Ah, I see. Apache?”
“Navajo.”
“Nice guy, huh?”
“The best. He quit the café last year to set up a farming co-op outside town, and he employs the youth of his tribe to help. He donates a good portion of the crop to the rez.”
“Sounds like a good guy.”
Reese pulls onto the lot and parks up by the showroom. Floyd waves for us to come in.
I put the strap of my purse over my shoulder. “You’re pretty sure you’re going to buy the truck? Because I’ve got to get back to work.”
“Yeah, but I thought we could go out to lunch afterward, to celebrate.”
I shake my head. “Even if I had time, there’s only the Chestnut Creek”—I imagine eyes crawling all over us there; no thanks—“or the Lunch Box, which—”
“Gives you the runs.” His dimples come out in his smile.
My cheeks heat. “Yeah. And unless you count the lunch counter at O’Grady’s, those are all the culinary options that Unforgiven has to offer. But I’ve got to get back anyway. I’ve been gone too long already.”
His eyes are doing it again. “You work so hard. You deserve a break. I’d like to take you out somewhere. Maybe Albuquerque? What do you say? We’ll go dancing.”
Dancing. What I wouldn’t give to…Wait. “Are you asking me out? Like on a date?”
He shrugs off my shrill tone. “Sure. Why not?”
“Are you out of your…? I’m older than you!”
“Which probably would have mattered back in junior high. Come on, Lorelei, you deserve some fun.”
He’s just being nice. And is probably trying to butter me up to get to Sawyer. “Sweet of you to ask, but no, thanks.” I crack the door and slide out into the pile-driver heat.
He gets out, closes his door, and steps over to me. “Well, I owe you, Lorelei. Thanks for taking the time out.” He holds out his hand.
I go to shake, but he turns my hand and kisses the inside of my wrist. It’s so personal, so intimate, I shiver. I’m snared by his look, my heart beating like a scared bunny’s. Some kind of weird crackling…power passes between us, and I jerk my hand back. Probably just me. “Don’t mention it. It’s what neighbors do for each other.” I turn and tell my feet to get me back to my car.
“And we are going to be neighbors,” he calls after me.
Like I could forget that.
Chapter 10
Reese
I drive “the Murphinator” on the back road Lorelei took this morning. My asking her out was spontaneous, simply an attempt to thank her. But when she asked if it was a date, why did I say yes? I know better. Hookups is all I do, and Lorelei West is not that. No matter how nice the woman, after a few dates, I’m jittery and looking for a way out.
I tried commitment once. Remembering the Sharon debacle is like biting into a grapefruit. She was sweet, loving, and attentive. We were compatible. We had fun together. She acted like I was all that with hot fudge on top.
I was imagining a future together and checking out diamonds when a slip of her tongue let me in on a secret that hadn’t occurred to me. She wanted my money—I was simply a sugar daddy with benefits.
I’ve been up-front with women ever since. No ties, no promises. But lately I’ve come to realize that casual relationships aren’t making it—they’re only a temporary fix. There’s less satisfaction with each one, to the point where lately, they leave me feeling empty and soulless.
I’m stuck between, not happy with hookups and not wanting to be alone. That desert stretch is a lonely, uncomfortable place. It feels temporary. But what’s the alternative? I’m interested in Lorelei; I can’t deny that. She’s like clean, fresh air after being in a smoke-filled room. I smile, remembering her blush. She’d be so right, in so many ways. It’s more than her pretty face, or even that pink bra I can’t get out of my mind. She’s down-deep good. Trustworthy, honest, and…man, I’m starting to sound like that used-car salesman, trying to talk myself into taking a chance.
I’m best forgetting about it. If we dated and it went south (as it always does), I could jeopardize my opportunity to have a role in Sawyer’s life. Nothing is worth risking that.
I’m right. I know I am. But Lorelei works so hard and makes do with so little. I’d love to make her life a bit easier, but I know she won’t let me. Even something smaller, like a new dress, just to see that gorgeous smile and know that I caused it. But she wouldn’t allow that, either.
There’s got to be something…
* * *
Lorelei
It’s after closing time, and everyone’s left for the night. I’ll be out of here in a few, once I finish tallying the bank deposit. Sawyer’s smiling face floats through my mind.
Be home soon, punkin.
I slip everything into the cash bag, toss it in the safe, and spin the dial. I’ll take it down when the bank opens in the morning. My stomach growls. Mrs. Wheelwright’s making hamburger casserole tonight, probably light on the hamburger. Not one of my favorites, but payday isn’t ’til Friday. I glance to the ceiling. “I’m not complaining, Lord. I’m happy with the gifts you’ve given—”
Tap. Tap-tap-tap.
My head jerks up at what sounds like keys rapping on glass. I pull my purse from the drawer, trying to listen over my banging heart. Nothing to worry about. The doors are locked, the safe is locked, and I have the Unforgiven PD on speed dial.
I walk out of my office, turn off the lights, and peek through the serving window.
Reese is standing at the front door, spotlighted by the streetlight, hands cupped at the sides of his face, peering in.
“Oh, for cripes’ sake.” I push through the swinging door into the dining area.
He smiles and waves.
I stomp across the shadowy room to unlock the door. “You scared me out of a year of my life, St. James. What the heck are you doing here this time of night?”
“I’m not really sure, to tell you the truth.” He pushes past me. “I was due to fly out this afternoon. But that new truck—”
“The Murphinator.”
“Yeah. It steered itself over here.”
“Okay, but I’ve got to get home. Mrs. Wheelwright—”
“This will just take a minute.” He sets his phone on the nearest booth and taps the screen. “You’re too busy to go dancing, so I brought the dancing to you.”
Norah Jones’s sultry voice fills the room with melancholy.
“Oh.” My hand flies to my mouth. “I love that song.”
With a soft smile, he holds out a hand. “Dance with me?”
My brain whispers that I look like roadkill and smell like the deep fryer. My feet ignore all that, and I step into his arms.
“Come away with me,” he sings, soft in my ear, and a shiver starts at the back of my neck and shoots down my body.
His hand is at my shoulder blade, supportive but not intrusive. He leads me across the floor, pausing, turning, rising, dipping—he dances like an angel. We’re gliding, perfectly in sync. I think to ask how, but then I’m too lost in the steps, the song, the blues-filled longing in that beautiful voice. God, how I’ve missed this.
It’s strange, dancing with a man who commands the floor. It’s like a tiny pause in your life—a perfect moment, when you put everything down, open up, and relax in his hands. And when you do, two become one. Something strong and sure courses through me. God, how have I lived these years without dancing?
We spin, and I’m smiling like a fool. I show off, chin up, turning this way and that like this season’s debutante at her first dance. He dips and spins me, his head tilted at an arrogant angle, grinning down at me. Knowing we’re sharing the exact same joy shifts something in me. In spite of our differences, we have more in common than I knew. Happiness is like champagne, bubbles up from my chest. Everything I hadn’t realized I’ve held tight for so long loosens. I can’t help it; I giggle.
When the singer’s voice trails off, he dips me, deep and
low. The light of the streetlamp blinds me, and I am once more in the arms of my shadow partner. I tip my head back until my ponytail brushes the floor. He holds the dip three beats too long. When I raise my head to see why, he’s right there. The light is blocked out, and his face is less than an inch away. His lips hover so close that I feel his breath on mine. He holds there, one second, two, three…
Then he lifts and spins me, all by myself across the dark floor.
The moment is broken.
Without his touch, like Cinderella at midnight, I morph back to a footsore, grease-soaked food slinger. But one with just a bit of sparkle. I walk back to him. “Wow, where did you learn to dance like that?”
“My mother loved dancing. Before she died, she made my father promise that he’d see to it that we knew how to dance properly.” He pulls a face. “I hated those classes a lot less than Carson did.”
I chuckle, imagining the cowboys I know taking dance lessons. Sure, Ty Murray did it, but let’s face it; he’s a god. “That was heaven. I’d forgotten just how much I missed it. Thank you. Now I’ve got to get—”
“Wait.” He stops me with a raised finger. “Don’t move. I have a present for you.”
“Reese, we talked about this…” But he’s out the door. My feet take a few steps and I twirl. Nice to know I still have the skill, after all these years.
He steps back inside, holding a grocery bag, and carries it to the booth where his phone is. “You were right about the lack of sophisticated fare in Unforgiven, but”—he waves me over and indicates I should sit—“I managed this.” He pulls out a pie.
But not just any pie. It’s a Maddy Seavers pie. I know, because it has her brand: she puts her initials with pinholes on any pie she makes. Maddy wins every blue ribbon, every year, at every county fair she attends. And she attends a lot. “How did you get one of Maddy’s pies?”
He bows a bit, then slides into the booth opposite me. “Turns out, her son works at the Motor Inn, and when I asked…”
“You sweet-talked Maddy Seavers out of one of her cherry pies?” When I stand, he does, too. I head to the counter for a knife, plates, and forks. “I can’t believe it. I tried to get her to bake them for the diner, and she told me to pound sand.”
“Aw, she’s a sweetheart when you get around that gruff exterior.”
I set down everything and slide back into the booth. “Gruff? She’s been known to run Jehovah’s Witnesses off with a bullwhip.”
“Then I’m glad her son asked, not me.” He combines a preacher-serious expression with a wink.
“Okay, but you serve. I have to call home.” I pull my phone from my purse and hit speed dial.
“Hi, Mrs. Wheelwright. I just wanted to tell y’all to eat without me. I’ll be home a bit late. I…I’m having a hard time balancing the bank deposit.”
“No problem, Lorelei. You take your time. We’re fine here.”
I hang up to Reese’s questioning eyebrow tilt.
I squirm in my seat as he slides my pie in front of me. “It’s just that Mrs. Wheelwright is a bit of a…” Matchmaker will insinuate this is more than it is—two people eating pie. “Oh, never mind.”
He takes a forkful of pie, and his eyes close. “Wow, I did good, huh?”
“None better.”
We eat in silence for a bit.
I look up to his studied gaze. “Why did you stop dancing?” he asks. “Your love of it shines from you, and you’re a fantastic partner.”
Yeah, I put that dream on the shelf, along with others, like my favorite clothes from high school. They’ve sat there for years, gathering dust. So what is with me lately, that I’m remembering them? Tempted to try them on? They don’t fit me anymore.
But it’s not really about the dream of dancing, is it? It’s about everything I had tied to it. The feelings. The love. Being one with a man. It was a false dream, but it sure was a pretty one.
Something about the shadows and Reese’s deep rumbly voice make this moment intimate, like the world has paused and we’re alone in it. The words slip out, unbidden.
“He and I.” I worry the crumbs on my plate, then set down the fork. I’m a grown-up, and years have passed. I should be over this. “We were more than dance partners. He was a produce vendor for the diner, and one day we discovered we had dancing in common.
“Going to dance competitions, weekend trips, we grew close. It’d been a year, and he intimated that we had a future together. I was imagining a June wedding and babies, and…” I take a breath. “Then we got the call that we’d been chosen to compete on America’s Ballroom Challenge. We were thrilled, of course. The town made a big deal of it: articles in the paper, people stopping by, wishing me luck. The reverend even put it in the church newsletter.” I shake my head, bombarded by needle-sharp darts of the hints I’d danced around back then.
“We’d planned to meet on Thursday morning at the Albuquerque airport, but I couldn’t wait. I drove over Wednesday afternoon and had a spa treatment that the Ladies of the Historical Society bought for me. I felt like the queen of the ball.” I have to stop, to swallow the shame in my throat. “I decided to treat myself to a high-class dinner, to celebrate.” I squint to blur the picture in my mind. “I went to a swanky restaurant and asked for a table for one. I was deciding if I could afford a glass of wine with dinner as the waiter led me through the tables. In a plush booth in the corner sat my almost-fiancé, sipping champagne with a curvy blonde.”
“Seriously?”
“Oh, it gets worse.” My face heats, and I’m glad of the dark. “I marched over and demanded an explanation. The blonde was more than willing to give me one. It was their anniversary.”
He winces.
“Turns out, I was just his ‘road-trip girl.’” I swallow the memory of rumpled hotel sheets and the welcoming arms of a young fool.
“Someone should have borrowed Mrs. Seavers’s bullwhip.”
“I should have known. In hindsight, the clues were there.” I force my shoulders back. I’m not looking for pity. “I drove home that night.”
He reaches across the table to touch me but hesitates, and his hand falls in his lap.
“Of course, the whole town found out. I was mortified. The next time the skunk showed up, Moss Jones kicked the crap out of him.” I smile and tuck hair that fell out of my ponytail in that almost-kiss. “That part didn’t suck. He wanted to press charges, but Booger, our local cop, said Moss was just carrying out the trash. Never saw the con artist again.”
His eyes are steady on me. “No wonder you hate liars.”
“Yeah.”
“I’ve got one of those stories.” His voice goes deeper. Quieter.
“What happened?”
“My own fault. You’re not the only one who can see truth in the rear view. I was actually shopping for a diamond.” He shakes his head. “I guess I should be glad I overheard her talking with a girlfriend on the phone about how she’d redecorate ‘the mausoleum’ after we were married and how it would be easy not to have to ‘deal with’ me much in a house that big.”
“Oh.” One hand covers my heart, the other takes his hand.
He smiles, but there’s no humor in it. “Takes one to know one, I guess, huh?”
“I guess.” I suddenly realize we’re alone, in the dark, and I’m starting to like him too much. I push to my feet and shoulder my purse. “Sorry to run, but I’ve got to get home. Thank you for all this. It was a sweet thing to do.”
He stands. “It was my pleasure.”
I take a step, but his hand on my arm stops me. His cologne wraps around me, luring me closer. I tighten my muscles against the gravitational pull.
“I hear there’s big doings around here for the Fourth.”
“Big for us, nothing special for anyone else. Just fireworks at the football field for the kids.”
His fingers trace down the sleeve of my blouse, not touching my skin but making me hyperaware that only thin fabric separates us. “I’d like to go
with you and your family, if that’s okay.”
I step back. “Thanks, but no.”
“Not a date. Just as friends. Why not?”
After tonight? The jury in my mind is still out. “I don’t want to give people the wrong idea.”
“Lorelei. People are far too concerned about their own lives to care about yours.”
I snort. “You never lived in Unforgiven.”
“Okay, so I can come??” His white teeth flash in the dark.
“Um…no.” I might as well admit it’s not Unforgiven I’m worried about getting the wrong idea. It’s me.
“Can’t blame a guy for trying.” He picks up his phone and looks down at the pie. “What do I—”
“I’ve got it.” I take it behind the counter and put it in the pie safe. “They’ll be fighting over this in the morning.”
“I’d say save a piece for me, but I’m flying out first thing. I wouldn’t have missed this for anything.”
I quash asking when he’ll be back. None of my business. “Okay then, I’ve got to git.”
He follows me to the door and holds it open. “I’m not giving up, you know. I haven’t been to fireworks in years.”
I focus on how pushy and presumptuous he is, to refreeze the soft spot on my heart. I drive home smelling him on my clothes and hoping he has a lot of business to take care of, so he won’t return until I’ve forgotten spinning in his arms. And that almost-kiss.
Chapter 11
Lorelei
It’s Sunday, the one day I don’t have to work. But it’s also Mrs. Wheelwright’s day off, so sleeping in is out. Besides, it’s raining, which means I’m on bucket patrol, putting pans and pots under the leaks in the ceiling in the upstairs bedrooms. By the time I do that, then get Momma ready and help her downstairs, Sawyer is soaking wet and fussing. I get her cleaned up, fix breakfast, do the dishes, then collapse in the armchair in the living room. Momma’s on the couch, watching a televangelist preach old-time gospel, and Sawyer is on a blanket on the carpet sitting on her haunches like a dog, cooing baby words. She hasn’t crawled yet, but the last couple of days, she’s been thinking about it pretty hard.