“I brought cookies. Homemade chocolate chip. To say thank you for fixing my top.”
Then, lord help him, if she didn’t blush. Fascinated, he watched the color diffuse her cheeks. The blush made her look lovely and innocent, appealing in ways that could knock a man right off his feet. Andrew drew himself back from that train of thought.
“Those cookies smell good.”
Smiling, she whipped off the foil and handed him one. “Fresh from the oven.”
What was he supposed to do? Say something nice about a woman who cooks. If he believed the men at the track, few of them did anymore. Grace was the exception rather than the rule.
Painfully aware that he had an avid audience, all of them probably storing up smart remarks for later, Andrew took a bite and thought the cookies were delicious. But he didn’t say so. And now he felt guilty. What was it about the opposite sex that always made him feel guilty or sorry or clumsy? Maybe he’d drive by the bookstore and get one of those books that would tell him what to say when the last woman on earth he’d pick if he was in his right mind had marched into his garage and brought all activity to a standstill.
Everybody in the shop was watching to see what he’d do next. He glared at his men. “Don’t you have something to do?”
Suddenly everybody got busy and the decibel level rose from zero to almost earsplitting in three seconds flat. Still Rue was watching him with such bright expectation that suddenly he did the only thing a gentleman could do.
“I was going for a drive. Would you like to come?”
“Me? You’re asking me to ride with you?”
“Yes.” He couldn’t back out now. Saying no to her would be like telling a kid there was no Christmas.
“Oh, wow! Wait till I tell the girls at the shop.”
Now look what he had done. His ineptness with women had driven him to something that would make him the topic of beauty-shop gossip. Not to mention the teasing from his own garage.
Still, the only gentlemanly thing was to set his cookies on a shelf and forget about driving the Novi. When he opened the door for her, his men let out a cheer. He might have to kill every last one of them.
“We’re going in a pickup truck,” he told Rue. “And besides, I’m not a driver anymore.”
“I know. But you used to be.”
Had she followed his career? Clipped pictures from the paper? Seen that he was but a shadow to the blazing stars of Dean and Patsy? He was too shy to ask. Still, it felt good to know that she remembered.
Thankfully, Rue was not the kind of woman who chattered every breath. She faced forward, occasionally smiling and waving to somebody she saw on the street, a nice, friendly thing to do. Besides, he was beginning to feel comfortable around her. A man could probably get used to the pink sequined tennis shoes. That is, if he wanted to.
“Is there anywhere in particular you’d like to go?”
“It’s your drive, Andrew. I’m just tagging along.”
“You don’t seem much like a tag-along kind of woman.”
“Underneath all this flashy garb is a quiet woman.”
“Hearth and home?”
“Yeah. You might say I’m a stay-at-home kind of gal.”
Was there a bit of longing in her voice, a hint of unfulfilled dreams? And why was he wondering? Idle curiosity, he told himself. Nothing more.
Though, what was that perfume she was wearing? It made him think of sitting on a front porch swing in the moonlight, soft music coming through the porch speakers, a soft woman in his arms.
“When you were young, did you ever imagine you’d be where you are today?” he asked.
She flashed him a smile. “You’re a deep kind of guy, aren’t you?”
“I like to think things through.”
“I grew up here and always wanted to live here, but not necessarily alone. What about you, Andrew? Did you imagine yourself as owner of FastMax with a driver who would win the Sprint Cup championship?”
“A man with racing in his blood always dreams of the championship.”
He’d dreamed of other things, too—a home with a good woman at his side, but he kept that information inside. Already, he’d revealed more of himself than he thought he should. Rue seemed to have cast some sort of spell over him.
Fortunately, she’d stopped digging into his dreams and had spotted Joe’s Ice Cream Parlor.
“Oh, look. I love soft serve ice cream. Do you mind if we stop?”
“Not at all.” In fact, he was relieved to be out of the close cab where Rue’s appeal was bordering on downright dangerous. He parked beside the small ice cream shack, and they sat at a wooden picnic table under the awning eating two cones of soft serve, their only conversation an occasional comment about the taste and texture of ice cream, the rightness of a cool snack in the summer.
He was holding the door for her to climb back into the truck when suddenly she put her hand on his cheek.
“You have ice cream. There.”
Both her voice and touch were whisper-soft. She was close, the smell of her perfume sweet in the summer air. Awareness jolted Andrew. For a small eternity, he was trapped in the softness of her touch, unable to speak or move. When he finally made what he hoped to be a discreet move backward, Rue was left with her hand still raised, touching nothing but hot air.
The moment deserved to be written up as Most Awkward Move a Man Ever Made with a Woman. Andrew could have kicked himself.
Instead, he wiped the ice cream off his cheek and said, “I guess we should get back.”
“Yes. We should.”
The drive back to FastMax wasn’t nearly as comfortable as the drive to Joe’s. In fact, he’d rather have been anywhere than in the cab of his pickup with a woman who had suddenly lost all interest in speaking to him.
“Thanks for the ride, Andrew.”
“You bet.”
He was so glad for it all to be over, he’d lost his appetite for chocolate chip cookies. Thank goodness his men had eaten them anyway. No more reminders of Rue.
Except one. His lack of ease around her.
That evening, after he’d dressed in his tuxedo for the dratted bachelor auction, an hour too early as usual, he drove to the bookstore and bought How to Talk to Women by Dr. Sylvia Feldman. He sank into an overstuffed chair in a quiet reading corner of the store and opened the book.
“Inside every man is the hero he wants to be,” Dr. Sylvia advised. Yeah, right.
“Overcome your greatest fear by facing it head-on,” the good doctor blithely told her readers.
“We all know how that turned out, don’t we, Dr. Sylvia.”
Good lord. In addition to getting trussed in a penguin suit to be sold like a slab of meat, he was talking to himself. Andrew hurried from the bookstore, threw the book onto his truck’s seat and drove off to face the music.
CHAPTER FOUR
IF RUE HADN’T BEEN such a fan and friend, she would never have turned the local TV station to coverage of NASCAR’s Date With a Bachelor Auction. Every encounter she had with Andrew Clark turned into a total embarrassment. She wanted no more reminders.
But here she was in a clean pair of sweats with her feet propped up, a cool glass of lemonade on the table beside her recliner, a plastic dish of cookies and a coloring book on the sofa beside Lily, while NASCAR bachelors lined up to be auctioned off to the highest bidder.
They had to use the term bachelor lightly, because Patsy’s husband, Dean Grosso, was front and center. Amidst howls of laughter and wild cheers, Patsy paid a princely sum for her husband.
Next up was Bart Branch, who took to the stage as naturally as if he were born there. Lily was beginning to nod over her coloring book, so Rue carried the child into her bedroom and tucked her in.
“Sweet dreams, princess.”
Leaving the night-light on, Rue stood in the doorway long enough to make sure Lily had settled in, then she tiptoed back to the den, sank into her chair and watched a parade of NASCAR drivers good-natured
ly pitching in for charity.
Finally, the man who had given Rue indigestion all evening came on stage. At least, that’s what she was calling the funny feeling in the pit of her stomach. Andrew looked like he’d rather be anywhere except on center stage being bid off to a gaggle of screaming women. The sight of him took Rue’s breath.
She stood up. Her glass was nearly empty. She’d go to the kitchen and pour herself some more lemonade. She’d cut a lemon into slices so she could put one on the rim of the glass. She’d take extra time washing the lemon juice off her hands. She’d do anything except sit in front of her TV drooling over a man she didn’t dare want, a man who couldn’t even stand for her to wipe ice cream off his face.
Instead, Rue found her feet glued to the floor. The bachelors were wearing tuxedos. It wasn’t fair that Andrew Clark looked just as good in formal dress as he did in jeans with grease on the pocket.
Maybe even better. He looked worth at least a million dollars. The bidding for Andrew was hot and heavy. Of all people, Sheila Trueblood kept coming back to top every bid.
What in the world was going on? Didn’t she have enough running Maudie’s Diner? And wasn’t she turning down Gil Sizemore’s invitations right and left? What did she want with that long, tall, blue-eyed drink of water named Andrew Clark?
Not that Rue was thirsty. At least not for that particular kind of drink. In her experience, men that handsome can love only one person—themselves. Though Andrew didn’t seem the least bit conceited, Rue had been wrong before.
Boy, had she been wrong!
“Sold!” The auctioneer brought the gavel down. “To Sheila Trueblood.”
Sheila, dressed in a green sequined blouse that set off her flaming red hair, hurried onstage to claim her prize. When she threw her arms around him, Andrew drew back like a man electrocuted.
Rue couldn’t have left the room if firemen were storming her doors to drag her from a burning house.
The TV panned in for a close-up as Sheila leaned toward Andrew. Was she going to kiss him? Or was she only planning to whisper in his ear?
Either way, Rue didn’t want to know. At least, that’s what she told herself as she stormed from her den and into the oasis of her kitchen. Calm green tiles. A neat row of hanging pots and pans with copper bottoms. Fresh roses on the table.
Grabbing lemons from the refrigerator, Rue set about making a fresh pitcher of lemonade. But no matter how much she sliced and diced, she couldn’t get the image out of her mind—Sheila whispering sweet nothings in Andrew’s ear.
“Sweet nothings, my foot.” Disgusted with herself, she stomped to the sugar bowl and dumped sugar into her lemonade. The sweeter the better. Anything to keep her from turning into a bitter old woman.
Mercifully, the doorbell rang, saving Rue from uncomfortable introspection. It was Mellie coming to get Lily.
“I just made a pitcher of lemonade. Won’t you have some?”
Mellie perched on the edge of her chair like an exotic bird that might take flight any minute while Rue poured two glasses of lemonade.
“I hope Lily didn’t give you any trouble. Everybody’s been so kind to me, I don’t want to take advantage.”
“Lily is an angel. Listen, sweetie, being a single working mother can be hard. Call me anytime you need a babysitter or a shoulder to cry on.”
“Thanks, Rue. I’m settling in just fine.” Mellie ran her hands through her spiky hair. “I should get Lily.”
Lily looked so endearing, a sleepy-eyed bundle against Mellie’s shoulder, Rue wondered what she’d been missing all those years. Motherhood. Chocolate-smeared hugs and sticky kisses. Footed pajamas and bedtime stories. Lullabies and rocking chairs.
It was too late for all that. Still, it would be nice to have someone to come home to, someone to share the laughter as well as the tears. As she said goodbye to Lily and Mellie, Rue wondered if there was such a thing as a second chance for her.
RESPONDING TO A phone call from Sheila for an emergency meeting of the Tarts at the diner, Rue found herself at Maudie’s the next evening. When she arrived, every one of them had a grin as big as Texas. Something was up.
When Sheila saw her, she yelled, “Rue, about time!”
It didn’t take a Philadelphia lawyer to figure out why Sheila looked so excited. She’d won Andrew Clark at the bachelor’s auction. Obviously, she wanted to share the good news.
For once, Rue was not eager to cheer Sheila on. Not that she begrudged her. For goodness sake, Sheila deserved a date with a handsome man. Even if he was at least twice as old as Sheila.
But why couldn’t it have been some other handsome man?
“Have a seat, Rue.” Sheila popped up like she owned the restaurant. Which, of course, she did. “We have good news.”
“I know. I saw the auction on TV last night.” Rue gave Sheila her best smile, then reached for the plate of fried chicken.
“Isn’t it wonderful!” This from Daisy, who looked as pleased as if Andrew Clark had personally agreed to go to Lamaze classes with her and be a stand-in father for her baby.
“It’s great,” Rue said. “Congratulations, Sheila.”
The rest of the women began to laugh. Rue didn’t see anything all that hilarious. “Am I missing something?”
“Yeah, but not for long,” Sheila said, and there was another round of chuckles. “Rue, I didn’t bid on Andrew for me. I was front woman for the Tuesday Tarts. We won him for you.”
Rue was so flustered she didn’t know whether she was relieved or mad.
“You’ve wasted your money. I’d as soon be strapped to a hair dryer and be thrown in a hot tub as go on a date.”
Grace put on a pretty pout. “You’re a nice woman and my father-in-law’s a nice man. I postponed making a batch of petit fours for the Fornightly Musicale to come over here and ask you to give him a chance, Rue. What’s the harm in one date?”
“You know I never go out, Grace. I don’t know the first thing about dating. I’d make a complete fool of myself. Besides, doesn’t your father-in-law think he’s been bid off to another, much younger redhead?”
“Oh, don’t worry about that. Patsy will handle it,” Sheila said.
“It’s like this, Rue. It took an act of God to get Andrew to agree to being auctioned off. If you back out, you’re going to hurt his feelings.”
“Hurt his feelings? Seems to me, he’d be relieved.”
“My reserved brother has braved the public spotlight for my favorite charity. If you back out on the date, word will get out all over town. He’ll be humiliated and hurt.”
Rue had rather coat herself with honey and walk into a den of bears than hurt anybody’s feelings. Besides, her friends had thought they were doing her a real favor. And she knew for a fact that with a race this weekend, Patsy wouldn’t even be here if she didn’t consider this fix-up date between her brother and Rue to be important.
Rue didn’t want to disappoint any of them. “All right, then. I’ll take his call and we’ll see what happens.” The women let out a whoop of triumph. “Listen, this is just one date. That’s all.”
“Yeah,” Sheila said, “but what a guy.”
“A real hunk,” Daisy added.
“A prince.” Grace was positively gleeful.
“Good grief, the next thing I know all of you will be picking out bridesmaids dresses.”
“I saw some on sale at the bridal shop,” Patsy said, and Rue threw a roll at her.
Everyone settled in to give Rue dating advice, but her mind was on other things. Obviously, Andrew Clark didn’t need to auction himself off to get a woman, even if he was as awkward as a four-legged chicken around the opposite sex.
Rue was a charity date. That was all.
She could handle that.
CHAPTER FIVE
ANDREW HAD SPENT AN incredibly hectic day seeing to last-minute details. His team was already in Indianapolis, and he’d be flying out early tomorrow in his private jet.
He got a pepperoni-
and-sausage pizza from the freezer and stuck it in the oven. While it was heating, he unwound from an intense and very long day of race-related business by thinking of the perfect sunny spot in his garden for the rosemary he’d bought at Patches. By the end of December, the perennial herb would be big enough to string with small Christmas lights.
When his doorbell rang, he wondered who would be coming by so late. It was his sister in heels and a pale gray suit that probably cost more than his flat-screen TV.
What was going on? She usually called before a visit.
“You look great, Patsy.” He kissed her cheek. “What’s up? Would you like some tea?”
“Yes, please.”
She followed Andrew to the kitchen and watched while he got down the tea he kept especially for her and then made it exactly as she liked, no sugar, lots of milk.
“Is everything all right? Is Dean okay?”
“Everything’s fine. We’re great.” Patsy sipped her tea with maddening slowness. “This is not about me. It’s about you.”
“I was afraid of that.”
“Don’t look so crestfallen, Andrew. The world hasn’t come to an end. I just popped by to let you know you won’t be taking Sheila Trueblood on a date.”
“Great. I’m glad she backed out. If she wants her money back, I’ll be glad to donate whatever she paid to the NASCAR charities fund.”
“She didn’t back out. She was bidding for the Tuesday Tarts.” Andrew groaned. That couldn’t be good. When women formed groups, they were up to something. “You’ll be taking out another wonderful redhead with a heart of gold.”
“If you have to sell her that hard, she must have a few teeth missing.”
“She has all her teeth. In fact, she’s gorgeous.”
“Patsy, if this is a guessing game, I’m not in the mood.” Andrew checked his pizza. It was bubbling, so he grabbed an oven mitt and took it out.
“The woman you’ll be taking out is Rue Larrabee.”
Andrew almost dropped his pizza. Why had he never noticed how much that name made Rue sound like a saloon girl in one of the John Wayne Westerns he loved to watch? By himself. Nothing but a beer and a good dog to keep him company. If he had a dog.
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