“She’s really very good. She won’t drool all over the seats. This is Royal.”
The dog actually looked at him as her name was said, as if she understood she was being introduced. “What breed?”
Leaning over, she put the dog’s paws on the bottom sill of the open door. “Hoppe,” she murmured in that odd dog language, then patted the interior carpet. Royal scrambled into the back behind the seats. “She’s a Norwegian Elkhound.”
“Never seen one before.” But it explained the lilting commands the woman used. He’d have guessed Swedish, but presumed the two languages were similar. Multilinguistic. Maybe the woman wasn’t as ditzy as he first assumed.
“So you speak to her in Norwegian?”
She huffed, hands on her hips. “Well, duh. That’s the only language she understands.”
Was she kidding? The blue sparkle in her eyes said yes. “And you are?”
“Randi Andersen.” She gripped his proffered hand firmly.
The warmth of her skin left a lasting impression with him.
“David Jackson.” He flourished his hand. “Hop in.”
She looked at the height of the sill, and he had the perverse vision of helping her in the way she’d helped the dog. His hands on her hands, his body pressed to her backside.
“You need a hand?” Oh man, he’d give her one.
She raised a brow. “I’m fine.” She waited expectantly.
David didn’t move, entranced by her blue eyes.
“All right. I can see you’re going to make me say it. Unless you want the shock of your life, I am not getting up in this truck until you back off.” She looked down pointedly at her short skirt, then the height of the truck’s sill.
Shock wasn’t what he felt, but he was a gentleman, at least in deed if not in mind. He backed off and rounded the end of his truck, the image of the snaps on her skirt popping open.
His body might never recover from the vision.
Chapter Two
Mortifying, but really, how else was she supposed to say, Shove off, buddy, before I flash my privates. As it was, Randi barely got her skirt back in place—as in place as it could be due to its brevity—before he climbed into the driver’s seat.
Was he clueless or had he been waiting for the peep show? Maybe a bit of both. Nice. But not too nice.
David Jackson. Such a nice, normal, boy-next-door name. Not like Spike or Slick or Hellboy. Or Mick. David was a Mr. Nice Guy name. He looked the part, too. Clean-cut, no two-day-old whiskers on his chin or holes in his jeans. His white truck was spotless, and his fingernails were clean.
Though she did have a thing for the bad-boy type—much to her everlasting damnation, torment, and wicked delight. David seemed the kind of guy of whom her dad might actually approve.
Pops never liked Mick, but he’d liked her divorce less. Now you are just somebody’s ex. She could still hear his derogatory tone. She shoved away the voice of disapproval.
While not a bad boy by any stretch of her limitless imagination, David was quite hunky. Not to mention the military-style boots. She had a thing for boots.
His nose twitched. “What’s that smell?”
Her vision of him in boots and military uniform winked out. She rolled her eyes right, then left.
“My perfume?”
Mr. Nice Guy who was driving her all the way to town and back again glanced at her. Then he gave her a devilish smile. “There’s no way you smell like”—he sniffed—“skunk.”
“Royal thinks she’s a mighty hunter. The skunk won.” Maybe she should have told him before he let the dog in the truck. “It won’t get on your carpet. Cross my heart and hope to die.”
She did just that, the crossing part, not the dying part, then realized that was a big fat mistake when his gaze dropped to her stretchy spandex top. She just could not seem to do or say the right thing with this guy.
Talk about the dog, without the hand gestures. She stuck her hands under her thighs. “She usually sleeps on the bed, but it was so warm last night and she was panting and squirming around and I’ve never seen her so hot and bothered and...” She stopped, stuck on an image of hot, bothered, panting, squirming animals on her bed. And it wasn’t Royal.
David tugged off his sunglasses, dropped them in his lap, and glanced at her with those black-sand eyes of his, heating her from the inside out. Her nipples tingled, and she didn’t have to look down to know they were stark against her spandex top. Her skin flushed from her throat to her cheeks, and she licked her lips. He watched that, too, before finally dragging his gaze to the road.
Holy Moly. When would she learn to keep her mouth shut? “I give up. I’m not talking anymore. Nadda, zippo, nei, nyet.”
David Nice Guy laughed. It was nothing like Mick’s laugh, which had sounded like Snidely Whiplash toward the end of their marriage. David’s was deep and full and tingled in her belly.
Royal obviously felt the same tummy tingle because she leaned forward to stick her nose in David’s ear. Which made Randi laugh. Then they were both laughing.
He had the nicest laugh. And he had an even nicer gaze when he was letting it roam all over her upper body.
Randi batted at Royal’s snout. “It’s impolite to stick your nose in a man’s ear until you know him much better.”
David shot her a sideways glance. “And just how well does she need to know me before it’s okay to nose my body parts?”
“Your ear, probably a couple of weeks. Other places, it’s always impolite.”
The side of his mouth quirked.
Give it up. She wasn’t capable of shutting up nor of saying the right thing. But it didn’t matter. She’d made him laugh.
“Thanks for helping me with the gas thing.”
“You’re welcome.”
What a nice, polite guy. David wouldn’t be sticking his nose where it didn’t belong on short acquaintance. Mick hadn’t known please and thank-you from “get your fat ass in there and get me a beer.”
She stopped herself just short of asking if David liked her ass. “I’d like to repay you somehow.”
He was silent a long moment.
Her skin prickled waiting for his answer.
“How did you want to repay me?” A slight harsh note laced his voice, then softened as he added, “I don’t accept cash for saving a damsel in distress.”
He probably saved damsels a lot, which deserved more than a coffee or a donut. She wanted more than coffee and donuts.
She’d come back to Willoughby a year ago for a lot of reasons; helping her parents, getting her life in order, divorce recovery, self-esteem recovery. Settling down, whatever that meant. She felt far from settled. Maybe, like her father always told her, she needed a man to take care of her. A nice guy, not a Mick who, while he could be sweet as banana cream pie and make her fall in love all over again, had a mean streak a mile wide. He had never beat her, but he knew just the right words to make her feel as dull and as stupid as a potato. Nice guys didn’t do that. Nice guys cherished, loved, and protected. They made a girl feel special. Didn’t they? Here was her chance to find out. Her dad would be pleased she’d finally set her sights on a nice guy.
Randi smiled and jumped in with all her wits about her. “Dinner. Tonight. If you’d like.”
David tipped his head, the look he gave her lasting longer than the other glances. They were nearing town, and she noticed Royal pressed a wet doggie nose to his side window.
Finally, David answered. “Dinner sounds good. I’ll pick you up. What time?”
“I meant I was going to make you dinner. Picking me up on the side of the road deserves more than restaurant fare. How about seven?” That would give her time to clean the house.
He maneuvered into Four Corners Garage, pulling up to the pump and shutting down the engine before he answered. Then he retrieved his sunglasses from his lap and slid them up the bridge of his nose.
“Seven sounds fine.”
Holy Mack Moly, she’d just invite
d a man over for dinner. And she didn’t know how to cook. She’d call her mother for the recipe for Norwegian meatballs as soon as she got back from the vet. The store was closed on Monday, and her mom was sure to be home. Meatballs couldn’t be that hard to make.
Could they?
* * * * *
“But David, everything’s starting to get better now. We feel like a family again. Why do you have to leave?”
David winced at the pain in his mother’s voice, etched into the lines on her face. But getting better? Nothing was normal, not with Taylor and Jace getting married. Hiding his feelings about that was getting more difficult every day.
He hated to cause his mom pain, but a man had to do what a man had to do. “I’m not leaving the family, Mom, I’m just working for Rich.”
“What’s wrong?”
He resisted rolling his eyes. Mom was as bad as his dad. Making a change automatically meant something was wrong. It pissed him off that he had to keep explaining, but his mom’s concern didn’t deserve the anger.
“Nothing’s wrong.”
He braced himself for some of the same irrational crap his dad had thrown at him. It never came.
Instead, his mom rose from her chair, came around to his side of the desk, and pulled his head to her shoulder, hugging him as if he were a kid.
“I’m sorry. Your father and I can’t expect you to live your life our way. But with Jace settling down, I was sort of hoping you’d find the right woman, too.”
An image of Randi Andersen’s short skirt and tight top flashed across his mind.
He’d always been the cautious one, always done what was expected of him. Even the women he’d dated were somehow family-related. He’d had three serious relationships, and they’d all been with women his family approved of: the daughter of Mom’s best friend, a friend of his sister-in-law, the sister of a friend of Lou’s. And David would have fallen right in with the family pattern, if he’d actually fallen in love with any of them.
Randi seemed anything but the homemaker type even if she was cooking him dinner tonight. He was glad of it, too, because right now he wasn’t looking for anything serious.
“Mom, I’m getting a crick in my neck.”
She let go, then put her hands on his cheeks, and forced him to look up at her. “I just want my boys to be happy.”
She wanted her family to be normal again. They never would be. Lou’s death had changed them forever, but he wouldn’t squash her fantasy.
“I am happy.”
He stood, patting his back pocket where he’d stowed the paper with Randi’s phone number and address. She lived near him out on Griswall Road, a few acres down. Now that he thought about it, he’d seen her faded, dented truck before. He’d just never seen the driver.
“I gotta go. Dad’s expecting me by noon.”
“You’re a good boy.” His mother patted his cheek.
Yeah, he was a good boy. He’d always done what was expected of him. That was constricting him, too.
Randi Andersen seemed the perfect antidote.
* * * * *
David heard the dog bark even before he killed the engine. Randi Andersen’s house appeared little more than a run-down shack. There were more weeds than grass poking out of the hard-packed earth, as if the place hadn’t seen a drop of water since the last rain back in May. Her dented truck sat forlorn beneath a large oak as if it had been abandoned. The porch was missing several boards. Despite the shabby exterior, lacy curtains fluttered at the windows, and a brightly colored wind chime tinkled in the breeze at the far end of the porch.
The house was a bit like the woman, seemingly rough around the edges but softened on the inside. She’d thanked him politely for everything he’d done that morning. From driving her to the gas station, paying for the gas, taking her back, letting her use his cell phone, and following her to the edge of town once again to make sure she made it.
He couldn’t pigeonhole the woman.
Avoiding a missing board on the front step, he knocked on her door.
When she answered, he almost ran for his truck.
“Hi.” She smiled with softly pink-tinted lips.
This morning’s hot, bare-legged woman with the uncensored mouth had morphed into June Cleaver, the personification of the fifties housewife. Pearls circled her throat, her summer dress poofed at the waist, and her blond hair was neatly braided. In flat sandals, she was five inches shorter than he remembered.
“Hi.” He had little more to say, sort of stunned by the transformation. Then he remembered the wine bottle in his hand. “To go with dinner.”
“You didn’t have to do that. I’m supposed to be paying you back.” With a curve of her pink lips, she opened the door wider, took the wine, and drew him in.
Man. He felt almost guilty about the condoms in his wallet. A guy wasn’t supposed to lust after Beaver Cleaver’s mom.
Trying to take his mind off of Randi’s assets, he perused the front room. The interior was as shabby as the outside. A ratty couch dipped in the middle, its once-blue fabric sun-bleached to gray. The coffee table, draped with a flower cloth, was the exact size of a power line cable spool. The television looked like it had been born in the sixties and still had rabbit ears, though one was bent in the middle. Threadbare carpets covered hardwood floors that might have once been gorgeous, but needed stripping and refinishing some ten years ago. The three scented candles she’d lit couldn’t extinguish the musty, mildew odor.
She sighed heavily. He was suddenly aware of her beside him, of her eyes seeing the same thing his did.
“Well, this is...cozy.”
She snorted softly. “Cozy,” she murmured. “Yep, it’s cozy,” she repeated, almost to herself. Then she brightened. “But it’s clean. I cleaned all afternoon. I haven’t done that much cleaning in years.” She covered her mouth. “I mean, I clean once a week. But the dog hair,” she spread her hands.
“Hey, the barking’s stopped.”
“She heard me close the door. That means I let you in and I’m safe and she has to stop barking.” She clapped her hands together lightly. “Dinner’s almost ready.”
Pearl earrings dangled at her lobes, and her braid swished across her shoulders as she turned. He saw the deep cut of her dress, baring her delicate skin almost to the middle of her back. All that bare flesh flushed comparisons to the Beave’s mom right out of his head, and he followed her into the kitchen as if she were a siren crooning his name.
The kitchen was little better in the shabbiness quotient, with enamel-chipped appliances, stained Formica countertops, and a refrigerator that chugged as if taking its next to last breath. Post-it notes covered almost every inch of the freezer door, though he was too far away to read the tiny scribblings. But the place sparkled as best she could make it, and mouthwatering scents bubbled from pans on the ancient stove.
The kitchen table sported more stained Formica, but she’d picked wildflowers and set them in the table’s center in a jelly jar. Mismatched china and cutlery sat in two place settings, next to each other rather than opposite.
“The table looks nice.” It was the best he could come up with.
Randi’s house didn’t have much going for it. Then again, with her in it, who cared?
Chapter Three
Randi wanted to cry.
David’s gaze wandered over her possessions with wide-eyed horror. They weren’t exactly her possessions, of course. Most had come with the house rental. She couldn’t afford to be picky, but she’d scrubbed and cleaned for hours and put out candles and flowers and still...he was looking at a dump.
Worse, it smelled like a dump.
Her mother’s expression had been tight-lipped shock and dismay. Her father had simply turned around, walked out, and hadn’t spoken to her for three days. David Nice Guy was at least struggling to say something...nice.
It was sweet, but she still wanted to cry. She hadn’t even been able to find an appropriately circumspect dress. The front was
fine, but her back was naked. Though his eyes had followed the line of her shoulder blades, she felt...unsexy. Having a man in her house—this was her first date since the divorce over a year ago—wasn’t in the least bit exciting or sensual. It just made her nerves act up.
No point in crying over spilt milk, as her mother loved to say. She wouldn’t think about the bad stuff, only the good. He was a man, he was cute, he was nice, and he was in her house. There, four good things. She struggled to find at least five good things that happened every day. One more, one more...ah, he filled out his jeans to perfection, back and front.
Okay. “Let’s eat. It’s ready.” She tipped her head. “Gee, it actually smells good, doesn’t it?”
After dishing up, Randi set the plate in front of him, then took her own seat. The sauce was a little runnier than her mother’s, but that didn’t mean it wouldn’t taste as good.
“This is my mother’s special Norwegian meatball recipe, straight from the old country.” Hmm, the first bite wasn’t so good. The noodles had stuck together like they’d been glued and the meatballs were a bit...well, completely tasteless. Had she forgotten to add some necessary spice?
“Your parents are Norwegian?” David cut a meatball in half, scooped up some sauce with it, and put it in his mouth. Odd expression, that, as if he’d just eaten sawdust.
“Yeah. They came over to the States in the sixties. I was born here.” Randi decided to go for the carrots next. Were they supposed to be as soft as mush?
She’d forgotten the meal cooking on the stove while she was getting ready, worrying about her hair, her dress, her makeup.
David valiantly ate on and plied her with polite conversation. “They don’t happen to own that Scandinavian grocery store down on Main, do they?”
“Please, it’s not a grocery store. Scandia Haus is a place of culinary delight.” The name wasn’t Norwegian, her parents deciding they needed something Americans could at least pronounce, but it still had the right flavor.
Somebody's Ex Page 2
