by E C Sheedy
Don't even think about it, Summerton. She's not your type. Not even close. He liked organization, ambition, focus. Unless he guessed wrong, that didn't describe O'Hanlon. He hoisted his flattened resolve upright. He'd eat lunch and get out of here. That'd be the end of it.
A cold nose nuzzled his hand, then lifted his hand from the arm of the chair; the nose was Font's. Kent smiled and stroked the huge dog's bristly gray head. "It's a good thing I didn't bring Lacy, big guy. She'd have been a goner." And one of us is enough for one day, he added to himself.
Rosie was back, standing in the doorway, wiping her hands with a tea towel. "Lunch is ready. Is eating at the kitchen table okay?"
"That'll be fine." He pushed himself out of the chair and followed her into the kitchen. For the first time he took a good look around the house.
From the outside, the place had looked like an old, turn-of-the-century farmhouse, complete with peeling paint, gabled windows, and wide, uneven stairs leading to a wraparound porch. Inside, it was painted and papered into a cheerful home. Kent half expected to see a dozen kids stream in the front door and demand milk and cookies. But she had said Miss, meaning there was no Mister O'Hanlon kicking around. Okay, so he was glad. Didn't mean a damn thing. Font followed him into the big kitchen.
"Sit over there," she instructed breezily, pointing to a chair at a round oak table in the kitchen's alcove. He took the seat and Font collapsed at his feet. Kent reached down to rub under his ear and was rewarded with a groan that said, "I'm yours for life."
"I wouldn't want you to take that personally," Rosie said, gesturing toward the dog. "Old Font is a world-class con artist. He'll expect nothing less than half your lunch in exchange for letting you scratch his ear." She ladled tomato soup into his bowl.
"Then I think he and Lacy would get along just fine."
Rosie put a plate heaped with sandwiches in the middle of the table and sat down. She looked across at him and grinned before picking up her spoon and starting on her soup. "So, you really do have a dog? An Irish wolfhound?" She shook her head, the neck brace automatically including her shoulders.
"That seems to amaze you. Why?"
She laughed softly, but looked at him carefully before she went on. "I guess you look too neat, too organized, to have a mangy beast like that—" she gestured toward Font again "—clutter up your place."
He tasted the soup. Delicious. Definitely not out of a can. "And you're not?"
"Look around. Clutter is my life."
He glanced around the kitchen. In one corner a half dozen shelves groaned under a load of cookbooks. The island in the center of the kitchen looked as though a team of chefs was about to prepare a presidential banquet, and in the corner, by the big brick fireplace, a chair and carpet were buried under a library's supply of magazines and newspapers. She was right. His place was neater.
By the time his gaze got back to her, she was munching her sandwich and studying him, her eyes bright with curiosity. When he made no comment on her kitchen, she said, "I'm guessing your life is more, uh, organized. You've probably got one of those Mensa level smart phones that talk to you to remind you of your appointments."
"As a matter of fact, I do. Why?"
She slapped a hand on the table. "I knew it!"
She was looking at him as if his pants were belted under his armpits and his hair was oiled. "I take it there's something wrong with that?"
"Not wrong exactly. It's just what I expected."
"Expected?"
"From talking to you on the phone. I figured you'd be a man of ambition and definite plans. The kind of man who knew exactly where he was going to be in five years."
What she said was true, but he didn't admit it. After all, the lady hadn't made it sound like a compliment. "You got all that from one phone call?"
"Uh—huh." She took another bite of her sandwich and chewed quietly.
"And you don't approve?" He wished he could bite back the question. He didn't give a damn if she approved or not.
She put down her sandwich, put her elbows on the table, and laced her fingers together. Across this bridge, she gazed at him, her expression sober, introspective. "It's not a question of approval. There's a part of me that envies you your ability to—" she glanced away briefly "—prioritize things. Get and keep control of life's messy threads. My accountant says that's exactly what I should be doing, but I'm not very good at it."
"You have an accountant?"
"Does that surprise you?"
"About as much as my having a dog surprised you."
She laughed at that, and it rang like a bell somewhere near his heart. Kent didn't know you could hear bells when you were sinking into quicksand. "What else does your accountant think you should do?"
"For one thing, she thinks I should deep-six Cyrano, Inc."
"I'll second that."
She ignored him. "She also thinks I should sell this place. According to her, I'm mortgage poor."
Kent looked around, this time more assessingly. "Probably not a bad idea. It would bring top dollar in today's market."
She was still smiling when she said, "You and Jonesy would like each other."
"Jonesy?"
"Roberta Jones. My accountant." Her expression brightened. "Maybe you'd like to meet her."
Kent stared at her. "Have I got this right? You met me less than an hour ago, and you're trying to fix me up with your accountant?"
"You'd like each other," she repeated, her face earnest. "Jonesy admires ambitious men with goals. She says that's the only kind of partner a smart woman should consider. She says in today's economy a blending of two careers makes more sense than a blending of hearts."
He'd had enough. He was teed off. Here he was swimming upstream in a river of testosterone, and the cause of it was suggesting he go out with her accountant! "I think I can arrange my own social life, Miss O'Hanlon."
"Oops." She wrinkled her nose and looked contrite. "Sorry. Of course you can." She stood. "More soup?"
"No. Thanks." He tossed his napkin on the table and rose to go. "I think I'll leave before you call the marriage broker. I appreciate the lunch."
She walked him to the door, Font ambling along behind them. Once there, she pushed her glasses up her nose and gazed up at him, her hand on the doorknob. The sunlight streamed through the side window, illuminating her sweater to neon.
"I didn't mean to embarrass you, or anything," she said. "I hope you know that."
"You didn't." One look through the mended glasses to her bright, somewhat worried blue eyes and his irritation dissolved. He couldn't help himself, he touched her cheek, drawing his index finger along her jawline. Her skin was dangerously soft. His touch seemed to disconcert her, but the neck brace made it awkward for her to pull away. He broke the connection reluctantly. "Thanks for lunch, Rosie."
She smiled then. "I guess you can't be too mad if I'm Rosie again."
"I guess not," he said, and meant it.
He was opening his car door when he heard her call from the porch, "What about the letters? You didn't tell me what you thought about my idea. Shall I do it or not?"
The letters. Damn! He didn't have a clue what her idea was. But then again...
He smiled and turned. "I'll think about it and give you a call. Don't do anything until you hear from me. Okay?"
"Okay," she yelled back.
* * *
Rosie watched him go, waving once as he left her property and headed down the main road.
She stayed on the porch a long time, first standing, then easing herself into the big rocker near the door. Font flopped down beside her.
Her thoughts went here, there, and everywhere. It was as though she'd opened her door and a gale had blown through. Damn those eyes of his. She always was a sucker for green eyes.
"Too bad," she said to Font, rubbing his ear. She leaned her head back. "Yup, really too bad."
Summerton wasn't her man, and that was unfortunate. Because if he were, it would put her
ahead of schedule, and that would be terrific, because she wasn't getting any younger. She sighed. Why couldn't she have opened her door to the ideal man instead of an over-worked, overtired corporate robot? She recognized the tension, the frayed edges. Summerton was programmed, hard-wired to a demanding job that barely left him time to eat. She swallowed her disappointment.
Jonesy would definitely have the hots for him. She pulled her lower lip under her teeth, wondering why she'd suggested they meet. A defensive gesture, she decided. After her last disastrous relationship with a set-the-world-on-fire type, she'd sworn off them for good. The mystery was that she always attracted them. That they also attracted her, she chose to ignore.
Within weeks of being hired by Moore Write, the VP of Sales had attached himself to her desk like moss to a ruin. So she'd decided to work at home. Lord, the man had already gone through three wives. Add to that he lived in a glass penthouse, wore Armani, and drove a two-seater Mercedes. They were peanut butter and pate.
And so were she and Kent Summerton, and that was a heartbreaker, because those eyes of his were to drown in, and that neural anesthetic he used for aftershave was—
Rosie yanked up her socks and pushed herself out of the rocker. It didn't matter what it was. He didn't make the cut. On that she would not compromise. It would probably shock the hell out of Jonesy, the prioritizer, and Summerton, the magnificent; but Rosie O'Hanlon had come up with a plan of her own.
And a man like Summerton, all edge and ambition, definitely wasn't part of it.
* * *
Kent phoned the following afternoon.
"I got another one of your letters today," he said without preamble.
"They are not my letters. They are Gardenia's letters," she stated flatly.
"I prefer to put a name with the prose," he said, his tone silky with a hint of tease.
Rosie rubbed one of her warming cheeks. For the first time, she realized this situation could get really embarrassing before it was over. Especially if he insisted on calling the letters hers. While romantic, the letters were also—at Gardenia's urging—rather bold. Some of her descriptions had made the top of Rosie's ears glow. She'd even told Rosie how big it was and just how she wanted it described. Of course, Rosie had swallowed her lies whole and jumped in with her usual excess of enthusiasm. How could she have been such a twit?
She pulled at her neck brace to let the steam escape so she could talk. "Then use someone else's name," she finally said. "This one's taken."
"Who's the lucky guy?"
"What? Oh, I meant taken by me." Damn it, she should have lied. But she was no good at lying.
"Glad to hear it. Can I buy you dinner tonight? We'll discuss your idea. Make a decision."
"No."
"That's it? No?" He sounded stunned.
"The brace and I eat in."
Silence.
"Then I'll come by tomorrow. We'll talk then."
"I won't be here tomorrow. A colleague of mine is coming to drive me to the office. It's our weekly project meeting."
More silence. Rosie broke it. She shouldn't do this, but the sooner they could resolve the matter of Gardenia, the better. She hadn't liked the way her stomach lurched and fluttered when she'd picked up the phone and found him on the other end. No way was she going to be entered into that scheduler of his. A woman had to be strong.
"Why don't you come here for dinner?" she said, and found herself holding her breath.
"You're sure?"
"Yes." No, she wasn't sure. This much lying she could handle. "I haven't cooked for anyone since my surgery. It'll be fun."
"Eight o'clock, okay? I've got a late meeting."
Of course, you have, she thought. Men like you always have late meetings. And early ones. And weekend ones.
"Eight's fine," she said. "See you then."
She clicked off the phone and looked at the clock. She had four hours, and, she told herself as she headed for her kitchen, creamed corn where her brain should be. She shouldn't have invited him here. What needed to be done about Gardenia could be done over the phone. She did not want to start something with Kent Summerton. And by inviting him to dinner, she had confirmed Jonesy's opinion of her. She was certifiable.
Font gave her a one-eyed stare from his sentry sleeping post in front of the fireplace. She registered it as disapproval. "Be careful what you say, big guy. You're looking at the mess hall cook here."
She opened the fridge door, which was enough incentive for him to rise on all fours and lumber over to help with the inventory.
"So what do you think?" She dug through the meat drawer. "Lamb or beef?"
His tail whomped her thigh and he winked.
Rosie looked at the New York steaks in her hand, let out a long wistful breath, and nodded. "You're right, Font, he's definitely a beefcake kind of guy."
* * *
Later that night, when dinner was over, Kent had to agree with Rosie. She was a terrific cook. And she wrote great letters. When he'd gone back to the office yesterday afternoon, the first thing he'd done was reread every single one. Since meeting her, the letters had taken on a whole new meaning. Now he saw Rosie in every heated line. He'd almost be sorry to see the last of them. Almost.
After he'd helped with the dishes, she told him to go in the living room and relax while she had a few strong words with the brace. He was, she told him, driving her crazy. Kent ignored the fact she'd imbued the creation with human character—male at that—and did as she said, carrying in a tray bearing coffee and two pieces of what looked like the best peach pie he'd ever seen.
He sat on the sofa, barely resisting the urge to sprawl across it and close his eyes. He'd been up since five. If he didn't stay upright, he'd nod off for sure. He leaned forward, rested his elbows on his knees, and pressed his fingers against his closed eyes.
"You okay?" Rosie asked, walking into the room.
"A little tired but fine." Tonight must be special, he thought wryly. She was wearing yellow and lime green socks. Striped. Real howlers. He suppressed a smile and watched her settle into the recliner and tuck her feet, atrocious socks and all, under her.
"Coffee?" he asked, nodding at the tray in front of him.
"I forgot." She started to unwind from the chair.
"Stay where you are. I'll get it." He poured for them both, then crossed the short distance separating them and gave her a steaming cup. Their fingers touched, and his gaze shifted to her face. When their eyes met, the air in his lungs heated uncomfortably. She looked away first.
"Thanks," she said, pulling the coffee back from his hand and immediately raising the cup to her mouth. She didn't look at him again until he'd returned to the sofa.
"Want to talk about Gardenia now?" she asked.
He nodded and, ignoring his own coffee, leaned back to look at her, hands clasped behind his neck, legs stretched out in front of him. He could look at this lady for hours. Right now Gardenia was the last thing on his mind, but he'd put off the subject of the letters long enough.
He'd avoided it during dinner, deflecting the conversation from the merits of the Irish wolfhound to Rosie's opinion of Kent's eat-on-the-run diet, and how it was destroying his body. They'd talked about Rosie's mother. Quite a woman, by Rosie's account. After Rosie's father's death, she'd worked night and day to convert an old, rundown hotel into one of the best in Seattle. Rosie was obviously proud of what she'd done, although there were hints of a pretty lonely Rosie as a kid. He'd like to know more about that, but for now Gardenia was up. He cursed silently and rubbed his jaw.
Once they settled the Gardenia thing, he probably would never see this woman again. And something in him didn't want that to happen.
His gut clenched, and he dropped his head. He'd have to ask her out. Hell, even the idea of dating wearied him, the doing of it would put him under. Women. Dating. They took time, and he just plain didn't have any right now. He stifled a yawn.
"So, now that you've thought about it, what do you th
ink? Do you agree with my plan, or not?" She sipped her coffee and stared at him over the rim of the cup.
"I might. If I had any idea what it was."
She looked confused, and two fine vertical lines met in her forehead. "But I told you all about it yesterday."
"I was distracted—" he looked in the general direction of her feet "—by your socks." He slumped deeper into the sofa.
She stuck out a foot and rotated it as if to study her bilious green and yellow footwear. "Can't see why. Look pretty ordinary to me."
Kent eyed her from under heavy eyelids. "Rosie, there's nothing ordinary about you." God, he was sleepy.
She pulled her foot back. "The letters, Kent. Let's talk about the letters."
He nodded. "Right. So tell me this good idea of yours."
"What I think we should do is..."
* * *
Kent woke up to sunlight doing laser surgery on his irises. He shaded his eyes against the glare coming at him from the living room window, pulled himself to a sitting position, and looked around stupidly. He was on Rosie's couch. He rubbed his eyes, then fingercombed his hair.
Smooth, Summerton, real smooth.
A glance at his watch told him it was after seven. He should have been at Beachline an hour ago. The smell of coffee and frying bacon lured his nose—followed closely by the rest of him—to the kitchen while he tucked his shirt back into his pants.
Rosie was at the stove, pulling something from the oven with hands engulfed in a pair of the biggest oven mitts he'd ever seen. Out came plump muffins and an aroma that was all about lazy Sunday mornings, scattered newspapers, and crumbs in the bed. Kent, leaning against the doorjamb, breathed deep.
Rosie caught sight of him as she turned to put the muffins on the counter. "Hey, it's the dinner guest from hell." She waved a mitted hand. "There's orange juice in the fridge."
"Fresh squeezed, I'll bet."
She smiled at him. "You're complaining?" She used one of her mittened paws to push back a rush of red hair that threatened to cloud her face.
"Mind if I use your shower first? Mess up some towels. Maybe splash some water around?"
