It always felt good in Roark’s shop.
As she walked deeper, she saw a few items here and there by local artists and writers. A bookshelf housed locally written books with a sign advertising a book signing for a trio of romance writers.
She couldn’t help smiling—leave it to Roark to promote local artisans. Probably because his mother had always been an artist—a struggling one, to be certain, but she was always painting. When she wasn’t holding down the store, of course.
“Hello Stephanie,” Glenda said, coming from behind a display.
“Hi there,” Stephanie answered. “How are you?” They exchanged the usual pleasantries for a few moments, until Steph asked about Roark, which made her heart hammer.
“I don’t know if you want to see him today,” Glenda said, shaking her head. “He’s been quite grumpy all day. All week, even.”
“Well, maybe I can cheer him up,” she answered. Though she wasn’t sure—and still didn’t even know why she’d come. Only she had to know—was his dating suggestion serious, or had it only been wedding bliss?
It was just the wedding, she’d been telling herself all week. After all, she knew Roark. Knew him well. The thought gave her pause.
Maybe too well. Because she knew, better than anyone, once Roark was determined to do something, by God he did it. Been that way since he was a kid.
And if he had decided he wanted to date her…
The implications were startling.
She wasn’t sure how to use the knowledge.
“Stephanie?” Glenda’s voice jarred her.
“Sorry, just…trying to figure out why Roark would be so grumpy.”
“Whatever it is, it’s big. I thought I heard him praying down there.”
“Wow.” Stephanie glanced at the door leading to the basement, where Roark kept his mixing lab. Prayer was a measure of last resort for Roark, and usually it involved some serious stress to bring that side of him out.
This could not be good.
“Good luck,” Glenda said.
“I sure hope I don’t need it,” Stephanie replied as she yanked open the heavy door.
Roark paused, fingers poised over the tablet.
She’s here.
It hit him in a blinding thud, like he’d been struck over the head. He could smell her perfume as she came down the stairs—her footfalls hesitating as she traversed the narrow steps.
While his lab was clean and tidy, painted a cool gray, it still remained a basement, and most people had to duck when entering because of the low ceiling and duct work around the stairs. Stephanie was no exception.
Her strappy sandals appeared first, then her calves glided into view. No hose covered her lightly tanned legs that glowed like something in a television commercial. The bottom of her flowery skirt appeared, the trim caressing her thighs, and Roark couldn’t look away.
Like a burlesque show, he watched as she reached for the overhang above the steps to steady herself, her long slender fingers groping for perch. Another step, and the dress she wore fluttered across her hips. Slowly his eyes feasted on her waist, then her chest. Those beautiful breasts he’d gotten a brief glimpse of Saturday night came into view, then her shoulder, where one strap of her little dress had slid off. He wanted to slip it back into place, if only to graze her skin.
And then their eyes met.
The power thundered through him again, and made him stumble into his table. He regained his balance immediately, forcing his insides to calm down.
Fat chance.
He was here.
In a confined space.
With a very long work table.
And her.
This would not end well.
He busied himself by picking up the coffee beans to neutralize the smells all around him.
Including her.
Not that it worked very well.
“Hey,” she said, smiling at him, her cloppy sandals hitting the concrete floor, echoing in the smallish space.
“Hey,” he replied, glancing back at his tablet—what had he been figuring? Formulas? Formulas for what, again? The numbers swarmed in his gaze, and would not focus, no matter how many times he blinked.
“Whatcha workin’ on?” she asked, sashaying over to the work table.
He blinked again, and finally the numbers came into focus. “Formulas.”
“Blech, math.” Stephanie picked a pink rose off the table and sniffed it. “You mean you don’t randomly throw stuff together?”
This did make him smile. “That would be too easy.”
“But way more fun than any math,” she said, the bloom still pressed against her nose. A piece of hair fell in her face, and her impish expression made her look incredibly sexy and wicked, and he felt it all the way to his groin.
“So…” she started, setting the bloom down. “What’s up?”
He was not about to move. If he did, she’d see exactly what was up with him. “Work. You?”
She shrugged. “In the neighborhood.” She stroked a gardenia bloom. “Wondered how you were.”
“Fine.”
She snorted. “Glenda says you’ve been a bear.”
“No, I haven’t.”
“What’s on your mind? Something must be preoccupying your head, because whenever you’re being a bear, you’ve got something on your mind.”
He glared at her. She always knew. Well, mostly, she knew. She didn’t know about this—about how much he wanted to pull her against him, taste that sassy smile of hers and kiss her until her eyes glazed over in desire.
He forced himself to blink, to pull his gaze away from her. He had to, or God forbid, she’d figure out exactly what he was thinking.
“You’re still thinking about Saturday.”
Damn.
Of course he was. And any time he recalled being around Stephanie. Whether he wanted to admit it or not, she had invaded his brain. More and more with every passing minute.
It was like a goddamn plague.
He nodded.
“I see.” She picked up another bloom and started caressing the petals. “So what do you think?” She didn’t look at him as she spoke.
He damn sure wasn’t going to tell her how much he wanted to throw her on the table and have his way with her. Instead, he said nothing, touched the dress strap that had slipped off her shoulder and slid it back into place.
Stephanie froze, their eyes meeting, and her lips parted, her tongue darting out to wet them. They were incredibly close together. Like kissable close.
She rolled the shoulder he’d touched and shook her head, breaking the spell. “You’re such a guy.”
“Yep.”
She crossed the room to the other side of the work table, her fists clenched. She paced back and forth for a few minutes, not saying anything to him. Her lips moved, and he’d seen her do this before, when she was trying to decide what she needed to do.
When she stopped pacing, she put her hands on the table, like a boardroom warrior ready for attack. “Okay, fine. I’ll go out with you. But I gotta warn you, I’m a horrible girlfriend.”
“Stephanie.” Roark wouldn’t go on a pity date. If she felt this was a bad idea, she should say so. He wanted Stephanie to go out with him because she wanted to go out with him. Not because she felt forced.
She threw her hands in the air. “I’m a workaholic. I ignore, I’m self-absorbed—”
“You’re no different than I am,” Roark replied. This shop was his existence—ground into him since childhood—one day he’d run it, because he was born with the “family nose.” His brother and sister had managed to get out of it due to having no more sense of smell than a rock. His life had been planned. And he’d stuck with that. Because it was what he was good at.
Hell, most of the time, when he did do an
ything social, it was because Stephanie made him.
She shook her head, as if she hadn’t heard him. “I’m not good dating material.”
“Why is that?” Roark asked.
“Weren’t you listening? I don’t date well. And I’m certainly not marriage material.”
He blinked at the full-speed-ahead-freight-train-of-thought that slammed into him. He raised his hands as he walked around the table toward her. “I didn’t say I wanted to marry you. Just that we should try dating. Who in the hell else are we going to see? We spend all our time together as it is when we’re not at work.”
She rolled her eyes. “I have enough complications. I can’t handle more.”
He took her trembling hand. “I’ll make this really easy. Let’s go on a date. If it doesn’t work, we bow out.”
She nodded. “All right. One step at a time.” She squeezed his hand.
Roark nodded. He now had a mission.
To prove to Stephanie she was good dating material. And so was he.
Christy watched their auras flare. Roark’s bigger, bolder. Hers, pulling tight against herself.
This may be a challenge.
“You know, this might be easier with one of these.” Cupid appeared next to her with one of his arrows, twirling it in his fingers.
“What are you doing here?” Christy asked.
“Just offering my services.” He leaned in closer. “It is obvious there’s attraction. Just look at the curls in their auras. All they need is a nudge.”
Christy pulled away, fluttering her wings hard, and a dusting of blue sparkles hit Cupid. “That is the difference between you and me. I don’t force them into it with a spiked arrow. I let them find it themselves.”
“By tipping over beers?”
“That is not the same thing!”
“Face it, Christy, we aren’t that different.”
“I let them choose. You drug them.” She crossed her arms, fluttering her wings again, probably a touch faster than necessary, her blue magic sparkles swirling in the air.
“We have the same goals,” Cupid said, stroking the tip of his arrow.
“What do you want?” she snapped.
Cupid smiled. “Nothing worth mentioning yet…” And he disappeared.
“You stay away from them, Cupid!” Christy called, certain he could still hear her. She truly did hate that being.
Chapter Seven
Thursday
Roark pulled into the drive of Stephanie’s condo. Concern hit him. Her car was in the garage, but the entire place was dark. He’d expected to see lights on—her inside, getting around. Like always. Usually Stephanie was an affront to any energy-conscious person—every light on, all the time.
He wondered if she’d ditched him, and he grabbed his cell phone to make sure there weren’t any last-second texts from her.
Tapping the device, he didn’t realize he’d been holding his breath until he saw the empty inbox.
Everything was on. He revved the engine again, listening to the purr of his ’67 Camaro.
The neighbors stood on their porch smoking, staring at his car with scowls. He got that on occasion, when he pulled this out of the garage. Either people thought the ’67 was the most amazing thing they’d ever seen and drooled all over themselves, or they hated it because it was so loud and horrible on the environment.
Her neighbors were obviously the latter.
He let out a sigh as he shut off the car. He ran his fingers over the perfectly pristine steering column, then over the dashboard, the vintage radio—everything.
He loved this car. Had for years. Made it his date car a few years back. It added to his swagger. And tonight, he needed all the help he could get—his heart hammered and his gut clenched. He hadn’t been this nervous on a date in forever.
If ever.
Maybe this wasn’t a good idea. He glanced at the condo again, just in time to see the garage door go down.
She’s home.
“Well, here goes nothing.” He ran his hand through his hair, making sure his open window hadn’t messed it up too much. Glancing at the rearview mirror, he brushed his bangs over a bit more and took a breath. He needed to prove that he and Steph could work dating.
He put his hand on the door handle.
A knock on the window made him jump.
“Were you going to sit in the car and honk like in high school?” Stephanie asked through the partially opened window. Her hair was swept off her neck, and the breeze fluttered a few pieces around her face, framing her moss-green eyes. Her lips shimmered from the shiny stuff she obsessively put on.
As Roark pushed the car door open, she stepped back. “I was…thought I’d rev the engine a few times, see if your mom came out to yell at me…” His gaze swept over her black dress. Hell, he’d seen her wear it a half a dozen times, yet tonight it clung to her in all the right ways, and he thought she’d never looked more beautiful.
Especially when she laughed. “Well, Mom certainly would have yelled at you.” Her gaze ran over the Camaro’s metallic pewter chassis, with its black stripes on the hood. “She never did like those whippersnappers with the loud cars.” She touched his arm like she had countless times, yet it felt like more.
Everything felt like more tonight.
“Well, we rebel guys with our loud cars live to irritate.” He pulled her arm through his elbow and walked her around the car. He opened the passenger door for her.
“Oh, this is real date service, huh?” she asked as she got inside.
“I think my dad would kick my ass if I let a date get in a car without opening the door for her.”
Stephanie laughed. “He probably wouldn’t want some girl to scratch up his car.”
Roark smirked. “That too.” He went back around, and climbed in. As he slammed his door shut, Stephanie snapped her fingers.
“That’s it.” She grinned at him, an epiphany lighting up her eyes.
“What?” Roark asked, frozen in the middle of putting on his seat belt.
She crossed her arms over her chest, a smug look on her face. “You were checking your guy date supplies.”
He shook his head, staring at her. “What are you going on about?”
“You were sitting in the car for six minutes, Roark. I figured you’d get out and come in, but you didn’t. I didn’t know what you were doing out here.”
“You were watching?”
“How can I not hear this car pull in?” She asked, stroking the dash. “Now I know, though. You were doing the guy date check thing.”
“Guy date check?”
“You know, make sure you have everything.” She waved her hand in the air.
“And what is that?”
“Cash, card, cell, condom.”
Roark laughed. “Three out of four isn’t bad.”
“You forgot your cell phone?” Stephanie asked with an exaggerated sigh.
He grinned. Maybe this wasn’t going to be as hard as he thought. She seemed in good spirits—maybe he was just overthinking. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw her hands stroking the leather seat.
“I don’t think I’ve ever ridden in this,” she said.
“Then this will be a treat,” he told her as he started the engine. Outside, the neighbors outright glared, hands on their hips, and if he could read lips he was pretty sure they were calling him all sorts of names.
“Should I be scared?” she asked as she tugged the lap seatbelt into place.
“Scared, no. I’m a very safe driver.”
“Okay, Rainman,” she said, laughing.
Roark realized what he’d said and ran his hand over his face. “Good lord. I’m really suave tonight.”
“Actually you were doing okay until that comment,” Stephanie said as he backed the car out of the drive.
“I don’t think your neighbors like my car.”
“I don’t think I care if they do. They stand on their porch, talk about all the neighbors, thinking none of us can hear them.”
“Genius.”
“Exactly,” Stephanie said, clenching her hands in her lap. “So would your dad approve of you taking a date in his show Camaro?”
“He didn’t want to sell it after the stroke,” Roark said.
“How is he doing?” Stephanie asked.
“Better,” he replied as they pulled out of the condominium complex. They continued on their way toward the highway, talking about his parents and his dad’s recovery from the mild stroke he had a year ago. It had been really hard, since his dad had always been such a beacon of health the last twenty years.
As they hit the highway, Roark hammered the gas, sending them tearing onto the road.
“Holy cow, Roark,” Stephanie said as she grabbed the door handle.
Roark grinned.
Christy let out a sigh as Roark and Stephanie pulled into Jack’s, a local seafood restaurant. The place boasted the best seafood in town, and even on Wednesday, the restaurant already had a decent crowd.
Christy didn’t see her charge make a reservation. Of course, she had slipped home for a short time while Roark finished his work. He could have called then.
She darted inside as they got out of the car and floated over the people standing in the entrance, waiting for their tables. Leaning over the shoulder of the young girl manning the hostess stand, she noticed that, yes, Roark had called ahead.
And he had at least a half-hour wait.
Christy got out her wand, ready to move them to the top of the list so they could get right in, when Roark and Stephanie entered the foyer.
“I think we have about half an hour,” Roark said.
“Good,” Stephanie replied. “I’d love a glass of wine before dinner.”
Christy didn’t change their reservation, deciding to let it play out. As they took a seat at the nearby bar, she studied the couple’s auras.
Both were tense, though Roark’s aura was open, swirling around him, and moving toward Stephanie. But Stephanie, even though she smiled and grinned and acted like she was having a nice time—her aura pulled tight around her, like she wasn’t opening up to Roark. If her aura was anything to go on, she was very nervous.
Guys and Godmothers Page 4
