Nobody's Business (Nobody Romances)

by Gina Ardito

  "Umm..." He glanced at the door, noted the latched handle, then turned back to the woman in the loud plaid coat. "I think I'll wait for you."

  "No, go on-" The older woman cut herself off. Her curious gaze burned a trail from his right shoulder to the useless appendage dangling at his side. His skin itched from her scrutiny, but he steeled himself to remain perfectly still and wait. In the sudden silence, the grandfather clock behind him ticked off time in earsplitting increments.

  "Slap my head and hear the rattle," Eleanor exclaimed at last. "How stupid of me. You're a Ski-Hab student, so you're still getting used to your prosthesis. I'm so sorry. Come along. My coat can wait. I'll help you inside first."

  Her ludicrous neon green boots thumpety-thumped across the wooden floor. As she passed him, he caught a whiff of old-lady perfume. And mothballs. The strong, noxious scent tickled his nostrils, and he sneezed. Since his left hand still cradled the bag from Winterberry's, his right hand shot up to cover his mouth. Automatically. Instinctively.

  "Bless you," both ladies said in unison.

  Doug barely registered their words. He paused, the palm of his prosthetic hand near his lips, the sensation strange in more ways than one.

  Well, I'll be. The impulses actually work.

  And the lifelike exterior really did feel like skin. Too bitter at the time, he'd paid little attention to the bio-designers who'd fussed over him, gushing about all the wondrous, up-to-date features his prosthetic arm had. Now he had an inkling as to why they'd been in geek heaven. He stared at the hand at the end of his jacket sleeve. He had to admit, the gadget was incredibly realistic looking. Right down to the fingers complete with knuckles, nails, and fingerprints. The technological world had come a long way since the days of Captain Hook. Slowly, he lowered the medical marvel to his side, almost by subconscious thought alone. Like a normal person.

  Aside from their initial response, Lyn and Eleanor showed no additional visible reaction, thank God. They didn't even seem to notice his sudden bewilderment. But then, why would they? Nothing unusual to them in preventing the spread of germs and being polite in social situations.

  But for him, the simple gesture was nothing short of miraculous. For him, his ability to cover his mouth when he sneezed was a cause for celebration.

  He looked up, smiled, and murmured his thanks to the two women. As the flash of realization burned brighter inside him, his smile widened. With all the celebrities and sports stars he'd known, all the friends and few family members he had, he could think of no one better with whom he wanted to share this moment than Brooklyn Raine.

  Of course, right now, she looked pretty zonked. Glassy-eyed, quiet, so unlike the ski dynamo he knew from years past-and a few hours ago. But that was understandable. After all, she'd been bested by the one-armed bunny-slope graduate.

  Yeah, yeah. The painkillers influenced her sleepy condition, not wounded pride.

  And hey. If he were the disreputable type, he could ply her with a glass or two of wine and have her entire life story in less than an hour.

  "Ahem!" Eleanor's forced throat-clearing refocused his attention. "Come along, lover boy. Let's get your dinner date off on the right foot."

  Lover boy? He stifled an exhale of annoyance. "Could we just stick with Doug, if you don't mind?"

  Her rusty chortles echoed through the hallway, abrading his nape. "What? You've got a problem with `lover boy'?"

  Umm ... yeah. Could she have come up with a more harmless nickname? He supposed it was a good thing, then, he wasn't the disreputable type.

  On an exaggerated sigh, she pushed open the door. "I suppose we can stick with Doug, if that's what you prefer." She flipped on the light switch, and illuminated a room of stainless steel appliances, copper pots hanging from the ceiling, golden oak cabinetry, and miles of Corian counter space.

  Wow. He'd seen smaller kitchens in army mess halls.

  "Who's she feeding in this place?" he asked as he set the bag down on the nearest counter. "The NFL?"

  "Well, athletes, for sure." Eleanor bustled from one set of cabinets to another, pulling out utensils, silverware, and linens. "Skiers in the winter. In the warmer months, it's hikers, canoers, and mountain climbers. This is a bed-and-breakfast, meaning breakfast is included in the accommodations. Lunch isn't. Everyone loves a bargain. Meals are no exception. And Lyn's savvy enough to know that a good, hearty breakfast keeps her customers happy and coming back for more. Not only that, most of our guests need a lot of fuel to handle Mother Nature's challenges here. Even the peepers have a habit of tanking up before leaving for the day."

  "Peepers?" Unzipping his parka, he blinked in confusion. "What's a-?"

  "Leaf peepers. The tourists who come in the fall to see the foliage."

  Before he could form an argument, she reached up to his collar and yanked the winter jacket off his shoulders and down his arms.

  His nose twitched at that same dangerous mix of moldy flowers and mothballs, but he held back the second sneeze to a snort.

  "I know I shouldn't complain about them," she said in a low whisper.

  Clearly, she'd misinterpreted the noise he'd made.

  "They bring a lot of dollars into this community," she added. "Especially the peepers. They buy maple syrup, cheddar cheese, fruits and vegetables, bales of hay for decorating their big-city homes. Even my dime bags disappear fast during peak foliage time."

  Her ... what? "I'm sorry." He shook his head, resisted the urge to pound out whatever clogged his ears. He could've sworn she'd said ... "Your what?"

  "My dime bags." Her caustic laughter erupted again. "Change purses, silly. My craft group and I make all kinds of hand-knitted goodies to sell at fairs and local events: afghans, scarves, hats, and change purses. We started calling the purses dime bags-you know, like a bag to hold dimes-and the city people thought the name hilarious. Sort of an `Oh, look how quaint the dumb local yokels are' secret they savored. Now we have little labels we attach that say, `Handcrafted by the Dime Bag Knitting Club,' and we can't make them fast enough. Last year, we sold more than three hundred in October alone. Enough to pay for two brand-new range-of-motion machines for the Ski-Hab program. Those big hydra-whatevers?"

  "Hydrokinesis machines." Over the last week, Doug had spent plenty of time in the wave pools used to strengthen balance and motion.

  "That's them." She grinned, and her false teeth gleamed whiter than pearls beneath the dozens of hundred-watt bulbs in the spotlights recessed in the ceiling. "Bought and paid for by the quaint, dumb local yokels."

  He had to admire their marketing savvy. "Very clever."

  Turning, she opened an overhead cabinet. When she faced him again, she held a pair of stoneware dishes and matching bowls. "Gerta will be in at five tomorrow, so be sure to clean up when you're through here."

  "And Gerta is ... ?"

  "A terror about her kitchen." She strode to a walk-in pantry and returned a minute later, pushing a two-tiered silver tea cart. "If she finds so much as a crumb on her counter, she'll fillet you and serve you to the guests."

  He swallowed hard. "Guests?"

  Right. This was an inn. Which meant there had to be guests. Another variable he hadn't taken into consideration when he'd dreamed up this plan. How in the world could he charm Brooklyn Raine into talking if strangers kept popping into their dinner conversation?

  Hand stuffed inside the bag, he leaned toward the doorway. "How many guests are staying here?"

  Once again, Eleanor's cackles raked his flesh as she slipped a beige lace tablecloth over the cart's surface. "Relax. The only ones staying here this week are Lyn's sister, April, and her family. And they spent the day at Lake Champlain, sightseeing. Which should buy you"-she craned her neck to peer at the green numbers glowing on the industrial microwave"roughly two hours of quality time with our Lyn before the troops return. Give or take half an hour."

  He pulled out the plastic quart of bisque. To his surprise, the contents were still hot. "How can you be sure?"<
br />
  "Because April called a few hours ago to say they were staying for dinner before taking the ride back here." She looked up from the tray top she'd set with flatware, napkins, and seasonings, and winked. "That means you have until eleven or so, depending on where they stop, what kind of traffic they hit on the road, and of course, provided Lyn stays awake that long."

  "Do you help out all of Lyn's dates this way?"

  She took the soup from him and pulled off the lid. "I don't know. You're the first one."

  One eyebrow arched, he placed the aluminum dish with the panini onto the counter. "Like what? The first one this week?"

  Eleanor's lips tightened into a thin line.

  Strike one. "This month?"

  Silence met him. Strike two.

  The only sound in the kitchen was the tink of the ladle hitting the Moroccan red bowls as she poured the pink soup inside. Lumps of lobster meat crowded the creamy broth. The scent of nutmeg enticed his stomach to growl.

  "This year?" he tried again.

  She flipped the cardboard off the aluminum container almost violently. "Try 'ever,'" she retorted.

  Ouch. His conscience stabbed him right between the eyes. "Oh, come on. You're telling me it's been years since anyone's asked her out?"

  "No. I'm telling you it's been years since she said yes. In fact, I'd go so far as to say it's been decades."

  The stabbing increased to jackhammer intensity.

  "So, lover boy," she added, "you didn't just win a race. You won the lottery."

  In the silence of the parlor, Lyn indulged her body's demand for a little shut-eye. The hum of Mr. Sawyer's low voice infiltrated her haze in lullaby fashion. But Mrs. Bascomb's raucous laughter pierced the room's harmony like a speed drill. So much for rest. Maybe if she feigned sleep, both her guests would take the hint and leave.

  "Sit up, Lyn," Mrs. Bascomb ordered with the cadence of a drill sergeant. "Your young man's brought you dinner. And it's impolite to fall asleep in your soup."

  Opening her eyes, Lyn flashed a withering glance at her tormentor in the vile red coat. The effect was probably tempered by her sleepiness, but the intent apparently registered.

  Instead of aiming another zinger her way, Mrs. Bascomb focused her fussy side on the tea cart's contents. She straightened the ecru lace tablecloth, smoothed the napkins, then directed her next comment to Mr. Sawyer. "Doug, you sit over there, and I'll set the cart between you."

  She pointed to the wingback chair on the other side of the hearth. When he didn't immediately jump to do her bidding, Mrs. Bascomb clapped in a staccato rhythm. "Come on, boy! Get a move on." Her sharp, owlish eyes focused on Lyn. "You too. The sooner you're both set up, the sooner I'll be out of your hair."

  Lyn rolled from her side to her back, then pushed herself upright in the armchair. Pain sizzled, and she sucked in a sharp breath.

  Mr. Sawyer's gaze snapped to her face. His forehead etched in deep lines, he rose from the chair. "Maybe this was a bad idea."

  "Oh no, you don't." With one forceful shove, Mrs. Bascomb pushed him down again. "Something tells me you both need this. I'm not leaving until I know this date is in the best possible shape for you to enjoy your evening."

  "Has it occurred to you that I'm in too much pain to `enjoy' my evening?" Lyn retorted.

  "Pffft!" Mrs. Bascomb practically spat in disbelief. "It's not like you've never pulled a muscle before. Aren't you the same woman who won the local spring downhill with a fractured wrist?"

  "I was younger then."

  "Oh, right. That was a whole four years ago. Before you became decrepit."

  Lyn stared at the flames and pictured Mrs. Bascomb's voice box burning to a crisp in the fireplace. Honestly, she loved the old woman, but too much familiarity had blurred the lines of privacy between them. And the wrong comment to the wrong person could prove disastrous for her.

  Luckily, Mr. Sawyer seemed to sense the tension and immediately jumped into the fray. "Thanks so much, Eleanor." He grasped the live grenade by her liver-spotted hand. "I'll take it from here. Why don't you head home now?"

  "Ooh, anxious to be alone, eh?" She winked. "Can't say I blame you."

  While Lyn simmered, he shrugged. "Well, we are on borrowed time."

  "Okay, okay." She picked up the embroidered throw pillow from the floor and propped it behind Lyn's shoulders.

  Lyn shot her a questioning look. Since when had the old lady become maternal?

  "I'm leaving." Mrs. Bascomb plodded toward the front door.

  "Umm..." Lyn pointed a shaky finger toward the kitchen. "Use the back door, please."

  Mrs. Bascomb stepped back with a very audible harrumph. "I'm going to assume your rudeness is due to pain."

  Pain and utter exhaustion. But also because it was less likely Mrs. Bascomb would walk around the house to sit on the porch and spy through the front windows. Tomorrow, Lyn would owe her neighbor a very big, very heartfelt apology. But for now, the sooner she left, the better for Lyn's peace of mind.

  "Assume whatever you like," Lyn said on a sigh. "Just go."

  Thankfully, she did. Not, however, without a lot of inaudible grumbles and the clop-clop of those ridiculous snow boots.

  Only after she heard the back door shut did Lyn relax into the cushions of the chair. "I'm sorry, Mr. Sawyer," she whispered. "But I'm going to ask you to leave as well. I'm really not up for a date tonight."

  "Okay. First off, I thought we'd agreed you'd call me Doug. And second, no pressure here, but you do have to eat. And so do 1. So what do you say we table the `date' idea and just make this about two hungry people sharing a meal? Doable?"

  No ready argument sprang to her lips. The man had a point. And he'd gone through a tremendous amount of inconvenience on her behalf. How could she repay his generosity by turning him out into the cold night without a meal? A meal he'd already paid for? And honestly? He had won their bet, fair and square.

  "Doable," she said at last.

  The visible tension on his face vanished, and he pointed to the soup. "Shall we? I don't imagine this will stay hot much longer."

  "Absolutely." She inhaled the sweet-salty aroma of the bisque, and her stomach growled its approval.

  As she lifted the first spoonful of bisque toward her lips, she struggled to keep her wrist straight and not splash the delicate lace tablecloth. Once she'd succeeded, she looked up at her companion. And froze.

  The intensity on his face chilled her already cold blood. He gripped the spoon so tightly, his knuckles bleached. When his hand sat level with his chest, he leaned forward, craned his neck at a flamingo's angle, and practically inhaled the soup.

  Her stomach pitched. Had the man never eaten around other humans before? Baboons had better table manners.

  But...

  Wait...

  Awareness came slowly. His left hand. He was eating with his left hand. Of course he was. Because since his accident, his left hand had become dominant. Or, at least, he tried to force it to be dominant.

  He caught her stare and cleared his throat.

  She couldn't help the pity that pierced her fuzziness. Soup. Probably the hardest food for a recent upper-arm amputee to master. But he'd known she wouldn't be able to stomach anything heartier. In spite of his discomfort, he'd placed her condition first.

  Mrs. Bascomb's comment echoed in her head. Be careful, Lyn. This one could romance your heart out of you in no time. Turned out no time was the understatement of the decade. He'd already opened the locked cage where she kept her heart. A few more such gestures on his part and her heart would leap out to meet him halfway.

  In an attempt to put him at ease, she smiled. "I guess I'll have to thank Mrs. Bascomb for using the old tablecloth," she lied. "She must have known my hands are too shaky to worry about spills."

  Gratitude gleamed in his eyes as he returned his spoon to the bowl. "Why don't I put the bisque into mugs instead? We could sip instead of slurp."

  "You'd do that for me?"

  "No." H
e took her hand in his and squeezed gently. "But you're willing to appease me. So thank you."

  For the first time since she'd left the emergency room wrapped in ice, warmth infused her. From a simple touch. "You're welcome."

  Askilled reporter, Doug knew how to lead Lyn into revealing herself slowly. Once he'd poured the soup into more manageable handled mugs, he relaxed enough to engage her in idle chitchat. At least, for her, it was idle chitchat. But not for Doug.

  He began with a casual glance at the floral curtains, Victorianera furniture, and the glow of the fire. Next, a small, thoughtful sip from his soup mug, and then he tossed out a simple but complimentary remark. "These rooms have such a comfortable feeling."

  She looked around the parlor and smiled. "They're supposed to. Most of my guests travel a long distance to get here, and when they're here, they need a cozy place to return to after a grueling day on the slopes or slamming around the white water. It's my job to make sure they look forward to returning to this inn day after day, year after year."

  "Hence the hot cider on the sideboard, the classical music in the hidden wall speakers, the hurricane lamps, the quilts and throw pillows, and all the other cozy shenanigans you have going on here."

  She laughed and shrugged. "All part of my evil plan."

  "I'd believe that if you didn't look so angelic." Which she did. The dimming firelight, combined with the soft glow from the hurricane lamps, created a golden halo around her slightly tousled hair. The hot soup had restored some color to her cheeks and reanimated her features, negating the effects of the painkillers.

  The color in her cheeks deepened. "Believe me, I'm no angel. What I did to you yesterday afternoon should have clued you in to that fact."

  "I told you, that little push woke me up, knocked some sense into me." Got my mojo back and put me on the course for the story of the year. Maybe even the prestigious Metro Journalism Award.

  She shook her head. "I acted like a bully, and you're being gracious about it. I don't know if I could be so generous if the situation was reversed."