Hard to Resist

by Jean Brashear

  But what would he say if he saw Rue? Why put both of them in a position to relive an embarrassing moment? Though truth to tell, except for their encounter over the quarter, he only saw her rarely—usually rushing in for her standing doughnut order saying, “I’m late, I’m late.” Still, even in passing, she was a woman you’d notice—flamboyant, personable, oozing the kind of charm that could make you forget your own bad experiences with women.

  Andrew added bananas to his cereal, but they were over-ripe and he found himself longing for a big plate of ham and eggs. He gazed at his cold breakfast a moment, then dumped it down the drain. He’d never been the kind of man to back down from a challenge, and today that included another possible encounter with that wild yet strangely appealing Rue Larrabee. Andrew turned on the garbage disposal, watched his ill-fated breakfast vanish and then set out to Maudie’s.

  The first person he spotted through the plate glass window was Rue. All that red hair. All that charm. Who could miss her?

  He wished he could think of something to say besides good morning, something clever and witty. But how could a no-nonsense man like Andrew hope to shift gears and transform himself into somebody glib or, at the very least, passably sociable?

  Especially around a woman like Rue. She had a public personality so filled with confidence she needed to do nothing more than spill her quarters to have every man in town groveling at her feet. Today she had two NASCAR drivers standing beside her booth, hanging on her every word.

  What was she doing eating breakfast, anyway? She usually just popped in for doughnuts.

  Sheila spotted him in the doorway and came over. “Your usual table, Andrew?”

  “Not today. I’m in a rush. Just fix my usual breakfast to go?”

  “Sure thing. We’ll have it up in a sec.”

  A sec wasn’t entirely accurate. The diners began to leave their tables and push past him to get to the cash register. No fancy waiters with discreet black leather folders for your credit card at Maudie’s. Any minute now, Rue was going to leave her table and he’d be trapped.

  No sooner was the thought out than the flashy redhead strolled past him. No, strolled was too tame a word. In that red blouse she sashayed, she shimmied. To Andrew’s alarmed point of view, she did everything but brush against him and say, “Come up and see me sometime.” Which exactly proved his point. He was so out-of-touch with the dating scene he couldn’t even think what women might say without quoting Mae West, an old movie star nobody would know except a man whose rare evenings at home were spent alone, watching reruns.

  Actually, what Rue said when she brushed past him was “Pardon me.”

  “I thought you’d be on the floor in another chase for quarters.”

  She shot him a withering look. Good lord, what had he said wrong?

  “No, usually I’m upright like everybody else. I just get on the floor for fun.” She paid for her breakfast then whizzed out the door.

  As he watched her exit, he was eternally grateful he didn’t have to deal with her, or anybody even remotely like her, on a daily basis. Still, she was appealing in an odd way, and her rebuff stung a bit.

  Andrew didn’t just thrive on challenge, he thrived on winning. There was no glimmer of victory in his morning’s encounter with Rue.

  “Here’s your order, Andrew…Andrew?”

  He came out of a fog. How long had Sheila been standing there? He started to sit down to eat in the diner. He loved the homey feel, the easy camaraderie as townsfolk drifted in and out, Al calling up the orders.

  But Andrew had too much work to enjoy a leisurely breakfast. He took his box, paid and drove toward his shop. It was a tornado of noise and motion, Robbie barking orders, the well-choreographed, highly focused team moving about, the wall-hung, flat screen TV blaring. The frantic pace of his racing world would take Andrew’s mind off Rue Larrabee.

  Still, as he hurried into his office, he wondered if there was a course specifically designed to teach a man how to act around a wildly unsettling woman.

  CHAPTER THREE

  ON RUE’S RARE Wednesday afternoon at home, she was multitasking, nibbling a ham sandwich for lunch while she was up to her elbows in chocolate chip cookie dough, when the phone rang. It was Patsy.

  “Rue, I’m calling to invite you to accompany Dean and me on our private plane to the race at Watkins Glen.”

  “Oh, my gosh, Patsy.” Rue had never been in a private plane. Furthermore, she’d been so busy establishing Cut ’N’ Chat, then later keeping up with the enormous volume of customers, she’d never been to an out-of-town NASCAR race. Still, she had too many responsibilities to take off for a NASCAR holiday. “That’s wonderful of you, but I just can’t.”

  “I’d thought I’d ask you early to give you time to get all your excuses out of the way before you say yes.”

  Rue could think of several excuses, and every one of them had to do with Patsy’s brother. He’d definitely be at the races to cheer Garrett on, and Rue definitely did not want to be within three city blocks of him. Every time she was around that man, she felt like a flustered sixteen-year-old.

  “I really can’t take time away from the shop.” Patsy’s blistering silence said she wasn’t buying that. “With Daisy being pregnant I can’t possibly leave.” Rue nearly scorched in the flaming silence following that silly remark. Every one of the Tuesday Tarts knew Daisy’s due date was early September.

  “I won’t take no for an answer, Rue.”

  “Why don’t I just think about it and let you know in a few days?”

  “If you don’t say yes right this minute, I’m going to go over to the Cut ’N’ Chat and personally black out everything on your to-do calendar. I’ll bet not a single thing there has anything to do with Rue Larrabee having some fun for herself. Am I right?”

  “You’re always right, Patsy.”

  “If I didn’t love you, I’d take exception.”

  Both women laughed. They’d been friends long enough that they could safely tell each other the uncomfortable truth.

  “Come on, Rue. I’ve asked you year after year. Say yes this time. You know I’m going to badger you till you do. I’ve been patient long enough.”

  “All right. Yes.”

  “Good. And believe me, I’m not going to let you change your mind.”

  Rue went back to her cookie dough with the uneasy feeling that she’d just signed on for more than the race at Watkins Glen.

  Rue put the last of the cookies on to bake. Mellie had accepted Rue’s offer to babysit Lily this evening, saying Booie would be glad for the break. She wanted everything ready when the toddler got there.

  Rue probably would have baked the cookies anyhow. She loved a kitchen that smelled like sugar and butter and chocolate chips.

  She also loved gardening. Her favorite activity was puttering around in the garden center. Though she usually went in the evening when most folks were out having dinner with a spouse or a date so she could have the place mostly to herself, she looked forward to being there on a sunny day, rubbing elbows with other people who shared her love of gardening.

  With the last of the cookies cooling in the kitchen, Rue struck out to Patches Garden Center in her old gray sweats, jogging shoes and a pink baseball cap she’d received for a breast cancer awareness run.

  At Patches, she went straight to the bulbs. This time every year, she stocked up. She loved burying daffodils in little holes where they would lie underground all winter, undergoing a mysterious transformation that resulted in an explosion of blooms in the spring.

  She was thrilled to see that this year Patches had King Alfred bulbs in white with orange centers. The ruffled variety. Feeling like a little kid at Christmas, Rue started piling little bags of bulbs into her shopping cart.

  “I understood the rosemary was half price.”

  Holding a King Alfred in midair, Rue froze. She’d know that voice anywhere. It was Andrew Clark, the next aisle over in the culinary herb section, looking like the man
of every woman’s dreams.

  Ordinarily, Rue would have sashayed over, made some light remark and then gone on about her business. Instead she found herself behind the King Alfreds, staring in secret as if he were a mouthful of forbidden fruit and she was the hungriest woman in town. Good grief, what was the matter with her? It wasn’t as if she was a daffodil bulb set to germinate and blossom. Who wanted to blossom with a man, anyhow? After six or eight attempts, followed by six or eight failures, why even try? Besides, she was so old she was about to get root rot.

  Rue scooped her bulbs out of the basket and hurried off to pay. For goodness sake, it wasn’t as if she’d never seen Andrew in Patches. Last Christmas he’d been going out with an orchid as she came in. And once or twice she’d seen him pondering over the potting soil. She’d just never seen him after she’d been crawling around on the floor at his feet, sporting a side that was definitely not her best.

  Hurrying out, Rue didn’t breathe normally till she was in the parking lot behind the wheel of her ancient Mustang convertible. Though it was a gorgeous day and she loved the feel of the sun on her skin and wind in her hair, she decided to put the top up.

  In case of sudden showers.

  Or in case a certain delicious-looking blue-eyed bachelor strolled into the parking lot.

  Just her luck. The top got stuck halfway up.

  “Need any help?”

  Even worse. Suddenly Andrew Clark was standing in the sunshine beside her car offering to come to her rescue. All six glorious, gorgeous, garden-loving feet of him.

  Why else would he be at Patches fondling the rosemary? Unless he was a garden imposter. Suddenly, she had to find out.

  “Do you cook with herbs?”

  To her enormous surprise, Andrew Clark threw back his head and roared with laughter.

  “As a matter of fact, I do.”

  “So do I.” She was surprised and pleased, though why his cooking habits pleased her, she didn’t have a clue. “I adore lemon basil chicken.”

  “Chicken’s good with rosemary, too.”

  “So are nuts.”

  “Nuts?”

  “Pecans and walnuts. You know. With butter and red pepper. As an appetizer. For holidays and open houses.”

  He cleared his throat. “Why don’t you pop it up?”

  “Pop it up?”

  “Your trunk. To see if I can get that top up.”

  As Andrew’s head disappeared into her trunk, Rue wondered at his sudden turnaround. The man who could hardly say “boo” to her was very much at ease talking about cooking. But holidays stopped him cold. She wondered if his reputation for being a loner extended to Thanksgiving and Christmas. She didn’t like to think of anybody sitting home alone on those holidays. Especially this man who was now whistling.

  Her unexpected tenderness toward him took Rue by surprise. When he lifted his head and smiled at her, she was even more surprised. There was a streak of grease on his cheek, and Rue felt a not-so-motherly urge to wipe it off.

  “I’ll have you going in a jiffy,” he said, after fiddling with the roof.

  Thank goodness he quickly vanished into the bowels of her car. Thank goodness he didn’t stare at her long enough to heighten her blush. He already had her going.

  Oh, well, she could always blame her blush on the exertion of age.

  While Rue was becoming more and more aware of him, Andrew was back at ease. And why not? After all, this was a man whose life was fast, high-performance cars, including the No. 402—Garrett’s much vaunted race car.

  She wondered what was really behind Andrew’s cool blue eyes and endearing smile. Was he really shy with women, or was he more like Rue than she’d imagined—presenting a false front to the world while keeping his true self under wraps?

  She was grateful she didn’t have time to speculate. Andrew popped the lid of her trunk back down, strolled around the convertible and leaned in the window. Much too close for comfort. Furthermore, he now had that mussed look Rue loved—shirt slightly rumpled, grease on his cheek, his sandy, silver-streaked hair falling across his forehead. Rue felt hot down to the tips of her toes.

  “Let’s give it another try,” he said. “Shall we?”

  It took her a minute to realize he was talking about the convertible’s top. Right before she disintegrated under his laser-like gaze, she pressed a button and the top of her convertible slid into place.

  “Yippee! It works. Boy, you’re good with your hands.”

  To her consternation, Andrew Clark took a step back as if he’d stepped into an ant hill. When would she ever learn to think before speaking?

  “I was talking about with cars, of course.” Andrew still looked as if he’d rather have his teeth drilled than talk to her. Instead of letting it go, Rue took that as a challenge. “Didn’t I see in the paper recently that you’re restoring a vintage racing car?”

  Andrew visibly relaxed. “The Zakara garage restored it. When it went up for sale, I jumped at the chance to buy it. The Novi is just a hobby.” That smile again. “You’re welcome to stop by the garage and see it.”

  He was both enigmatic and charming. Was he flirting with her? Issuing an invitation? Rue felt herself getting flushed. Of course, she had to be mistaken. If reserved Andrew Clark was flirting with in-your-face Rue Larrabee, it had to be an accident.

  “I might just take you up on that sometime.” She flashed him a return smile. “Thanks for getting my top up. I’m lucky you happened to be here.”

  “I sometimes come here on my lunch break. You might even say I ran away.” His boyish grin made her pulse race. Good lord. A man who could charm with such subtlety was bound to be lethal.

  “Sometimes I’d like to run away, too. What are you running from, Andrew?”

  “I’d rather take a beating than stand in a lineup of bachelors at Patsy’s event tonight. Gardening unclutters my mind.”

  “Mine, too. Good luck tonight. Maybe you’ll end up with a real winner.”

  “That’s not my kind of luck with the opposite sex.”

  Rue was actually enjoying her conversation with Andrew. She would have said more, but his cell phone rang. With a wave, she pulled out of her parking space at Patches. Though he was already deep in conversation when she drove off, she could feel him watching her. It was like being under the beams of stage lights.

  Oh, this man was dangerous. He challenged every one of Rue’s notions about herself. The woman who wouldn’t touch a man with a ten-foot pole because she always got burned was suddenly thinking about putting her hand back in the fire.

  She had to put Andrew Clark out of her mind. Immediately.

  BY THREE-THIRTY, Rue realized immediately was not quite the time frame she’d need for pushing Andrew Clark off her radar. She’d done nothing except think of him ever since she’d left Patches. Planting daffodils had done nothing to take her mind off the man. Granted, it was early for bulb planting, but she’d had to do something to stay busy. Besides, she hardly ever followed rules, gardening or otherwise.

  She wondered if over forty was some kind of diabolical trap that made women go crazy. Then she wondered what kind of silly woman sat on a garden stool in front of her daffodil beds thinking such thoughts instead of doing the right thing—thanking Andrew for fixing the top on her convertible.

  She’d take him some cookies. After all, he’d said to come by and see the Novi. And if he wasn’t at FastMax, she’d leave them and come home, conscience clear. She still had plenty of time before Mellie arrived with Lily. Rue hurried inside to shower and change before she got cold feet.

  ANDREW’S TRIP TO Patches might have done the usual relaxation trick if he hadn’t run in to that strangely disturbing redhead. Back in the pre-race hubbub at FastMax, he realized he was hungry. If his mind hadn’t been occupied by Rue, he’d have remembered to pick up a late-lunch hamburger on his way home from the garden center.

  He rummaged in his desk drawer and came up with a pack of peanut butter crackers, which he hastily a
te before returning the call to sponsor Mel Springer, CEO of Country Bread. An hour and three phone calls later, he was prowling the floor like a jungle cat when his stepson clapped him on the shoulder. “Get your butt out of here and unwind before we all get the jitters.”

  “Too much to do.”

  “Take the Novi for a spin. We’ve got everything covered.”

  Taking the antique race car for a drive might just be the answer. If ever a man needed relaxation, it was Andrew. He handled—and welcomed—the challenges and tensions of preparing for a NASCAR race, but tonight he’d be sweating under bright lights while women bid on him. A horrifying thought, even if it was for charity. Maybe nobody would bid and he’d be off the hook. He’d just write a big check, then leave.

  He was running his hands over the sleek fender of the Novi when he heard the female voice.

  “Yoo-hoo! Is anybody here?”

  It was the Larrabee woman, surely here to drive him crazy. No sooner had he recognized the voice than she pranced into his shop, all bright colors and big attitude, red hair, oversized yellow T-shirt, black pants with yellow and pink flowers plus some kind of Zen symbol running up one leg and high-topped pink sequined tennis shoes that looked like they belonged on a performer in a punk rock band. Good lord!

  Even worse, earplugs were removed, tire irons clanked to the floor, hydraulics shut off and the TV volume went from full blast to mute in less time than it took to say “a woman’s in the garage.” Everybody from crew chief to mechanic momentarily ceased activity to gawk, an unprecedented event.

  “Hi!” Rue’s big smile included every man in the garage. Half of them all but swooned. “The door was open so I just barged right in.”

  Before he could say anything, Rue waggled a foil-wrapped package at him.