“Why aren’t you more—afraid?” she asked. “You’re so—calm.”
“I’m always calm.” His voice was low and steady. He moved quickly and fluidly, as if he were born for this very moment. With an athletic grace, as fleet of foot as a greyhound. Not a panicked bone in his lithe, sizzling body. While Meg could barely keep up with his long strides, and every nerve in her body was freaking out completely.
When they reached the room, Priscilla was lying on the couch with a plastic bag of ice on her head, her arm outstretched like a Hollywood diva. She wore one of those fluffy Turkish cotton hotel robes, while her dress lay crumpled where Meg had abandoned it on the bed. Sniffling sounds and pathetic little squeaks emanated from under the ice bag.
She was alive. Thank God. Bridal Aisle wasn’t dead yet.
Ben had snapped into doctor mode, nodding a quick greeting to the mayor and his wife, and going to kneel beside Priscilla where he immediately caught up her hand and took her pulse.
“Hey there, Priscilla.” His doctor voice was smooth and soothing, like a massage. “Are you still having trouble breathing?” Priscilla nodded solemnly, her pretty lashes fluttering. Meg knew her entire body would be fluttering if Ben was holding her hand like that.
“Your pulse is kind of fast.” He shot Priscilla a full-out grin. Any human female would have blushed, and Priscilla was no exception. She even managed a little return smile between her god-awful gasps. Meg rolled her eyes while the show continued. “I want you to focus on breathing slowly and deeply while I ask you a few things, okay?”
Ben helped her sit up as he volleyed questions. What happened? You felt fine before? Eat anything strange? Choke on something? Heart or breathing problems? The list went on. Priscilla sat looking pitiful, slowly calming down. Her mascara had run big-time down her cheeks, rimming her eyes with black and making them look huge, like a child’s. Even zombified, she looked beautiful.
“You’re not wearing that to your party, are you?” Ben asked, pointing at her robe as he placed his stethoscope in his ears.
She glanced down and clutched the lapels of her robe. “What, this silly thing? Of course not.”
“Well, whatever you wear tonight, you’ll look great.”
Gag me. Meg had heard enough. She walked over to the dress, sat on the couch, and continued her task.
“The bridal shop screwed up my dress,” Priscilla said, tossing over a glare that Meg caught from the corner of her eye.
At that moment, Meg knew the real Priscilla was ba—ack. Terrific.
“That’s really strange,” Ben said, scratching his head.
“What do you mean?” Priscilla asked.
“Because Margaret here just let it slip that Pippa Middleton heard so much praise about our own little bridal shop right here in Mirror Lake that she’s ordering a batch of dresses.” Ben paused, stethoscope hovering over Priscilla’s back, and winked in Meg’s direction.
Winked. She gasped at his audacity. His nerve.
Priscilla’s eyes widened. Her mother’s jaw went slack. They both stared at Meg. “Is that true?” they asked in unison.
What the hell was he doing? How was she going to get out of that lie? He’d just batted her the ball, but left her to catch it with a barehanded grab. She cleared her throat. “Well, I really can’t say. We guard our customers’ privacy very thoroughly.”
“Kind of like bridal-store HIPAA,” Ben added.
Meg shot him a you-are-completely-deranged look.
“That’s—incredible,” Mrs. Kline said. “Why, I had no idea.”
“I trust you’ll keep it hush-hush,” Meg said, lowering her voice. “For Pippa’s sake.”
Within minutes, Priscilla had calmed down. With his easy-boned manner, Ben had her and her parents chuckling at his bad jokes and drooling over his good looks.
When he stood, the mayor thanked him and shook his hand. Mrs. Kline hugged him.
“Thank you so much for coming.” Priscilla smiled a sweet smile, no evidence of her real Tasmanian devil self in sight. “I’m so much better now that you’ve come, Dr. Rushford. Weddings are just so stressful.”
Ben picked up the crumpled lunch bag littered on the floor. “Next time the stress starts getting to you like that, try breathing into a bag,” Ben said.
“What an excellent suggestion. We hadn’t thought of that,” Mrs. Kline said.
Meg really had to stop the eye rolling before her eyes got stuck up there.
“We’ve ordered some appetizers from room service for Priscilla’s lightheadedness,” the mayor said. “Will you join us, Dr. Rushford?”
Ben declined graciously and headed to the door. Meg stood up with the dress. “I’m going to need to spread the dress out to finish,” she told the Klines as she picked up her alteration bag. She wasn’t sure exactly where, but anywhere except this room would do fine. “I’ll bring it back in twenty minutes.”
“And not a minute later,” Mrs. Kline chided with a starched smile.
“Not a second later,” Meg replied, smiling back sweetly.
“I’ll walk out with you and make certain you get the dress back in time,” Ben said with a wolfish grin. He guided her out of the room, his hand burning an imprint on the small of her back. Lowering his voice, he said, “We can discuss that favor you owe me.”
Halfway down the hall, he cornered her like a snared animal. The confidence of a man who always got what he wanted radiated from his large brown eyes.
“Physical intimidation won’t get you anywhere,” she said, staring up at his hovering six-foot-four height. And avoiding his gaze, which was giving her goose bumps. Ben responded by leaning against the wall, placing his hand near her head, and lowering his face within inches of hers.
“There. Is that better?”
She swallowed hard and crossed her arms around the dress, not that it was going to protect her from his large spicy-smelling body. Or those dark, dark brown eyes that were so full of male arrogance. “What was that back there, the Ben Rushford show?” she asked, refusing to give in to her hormones. “Geez, I’ve never seen such performance art. Except at the comedy club. Maybe you could get a gig with Jimmy Fallon.”
He grinned, displaying a smile that melted underwear. She’d done so well saying no to him, but now she was so screwed.
“Honey, I do whatever it takes to succeed. And I got the results.” He poked her mid-chest with a finger, making tingles spread through her body clear to her toes. “I saved your ass. Now you owe me.”
What could she say? He had saved her ass, big time. And now she would have to pay.
CHAPTER 4
“Okay. Fine. Tell me what I have to do.” Meg rolled her eyes and leaned back against the wall. “But if you’re as charming at dinner as you were in front of Priscilla and her parents, you won’t even need me.” She made the gag-me sign with her finger.
Ben smiled at her sass. Not only was she not intimidated, but she was also not at all impressed. “I’m not taking anything for granted. Preparation is the key to success.” He was going to keep this professional. No emotion, no messy feelings.
“Fine. But I need to have this dress ready in twenty minutes so you’re going to have to let me use your room if you want to do a pregame briefing.”
He led her back to his room and watched from the sofa while she set the dress on the bed and began to sew. “I have to warn you,” she said, “when I lie, my face gets all blotchy, I start stuttering, and I lose eye contact. It’s bad. So bad you might want to reconsider taking me to dinner.”
“Not a chance.” He took the opportunity to study her. Despite her intense focus on her work, she seemed more relaxed, now that Priscilla hadn’t died. All her concentration was on the dress as she ripped out stitches, her fingers working with the skill of a concert pianist over the fine fabric.
“I thought you and Alex hired out all your alterations,” he said.
Her bright green eyes momentarily flicked up at him. “We do. But my grandma is a gre
at seamstress and she taught me a lot.” Meg used her teeth to break a thread.
“You certainly look like you know what you’re doing.”
“All that matters is what the Klines think. They’re our biggest clients. Plus Irene is on the loan committee at the bank. If they don’t walk away happy customers, my shop won’t survive.”
Ben saw the irony. His job depended on him impressing people just as hers did. “Well, you have your work cut out for you, and so have I. And I’m not asking you to lie. Just be super positive and madly in love with me for two hours.”
She ripped and tugged, pulled and pinned, her delicate fingers mastering the fabric like a surgeon in the OR. It was the sexiest damn thing he’d ever seen. “Like you don’t want me to keep my hands off you?” she asked.
“I don’t like showy displays of affection in public.”
“Okay. Got it. No tonguing at the table. So what’s acceptable? Hand-holding?”
“I don’t generally enjoy that but for tonight I’ll have to make an exception.”
She shot him a you’ve-got-to-be-kidding-me look. “Can I ask why you don’t like to be touched in public? A terrible childhood trauma?”
He shrugged. “Women tend to want to be touchy-feely and this is a business dinner. I want to keep it professional.” Just as he would keep their relationship. Brief and directed to one purpose only. A professional one-night stand, so to speak.
“Okay, Iceman, any other restrictions?”
She was funny, and snarky, and that surprised him. Maybe because he hadn’t seen her like this since—well, since before her brother had died. But then, there weren’t many things about her that hadn’t surprised him—in a good way—in the past few hours. He couldn’t wait to see what dinner would reveal. “No, but let’s review our goals. We’re serious but not engaged. But we’re looking to the future. If it comes up, we want to settle down here in Mirror Lake, of course. Find a home, raise a family here.”
“What kind of house do you want to live in someday?” Meg asked.
“Something modern and lofty, maybe a high-end condo,” Ben answered.
She snorted. “Hello. This is Mirror Lake. Shiny, lofty bachelor pads don’t exist here. Any home on the market is at least sixty years old. Think plaster moldings, wainscoting, nooks and crannies, restoration and renovation.”
“Okay, a money pit with a lot of character that will take years to remodel and accommodate a whole brood of bratty children.”
“Much better. Now you’re thinking like Brad and Olivia. You like their house, don’t you?”
“Yes. Mainly because they have a three-car garage and they let me stow my Mustang there in the winter.”
He was talking about his maroon ’67 Mustang with a white racing stripe. The real love of his life, which he’d bought in high school for a song. He’d worked on that thing for years and it was his pride and joy. She sighed heavily. “Well, it’s a start. How many kids do we want?”
“A handful.” He paused uncertainly. “How’s that sound?”
“Stressful. How about half a handful?” She licked her index finger and threaded a needle. “But I’m glad you’re conferring with me on it,” she added.
“I couldn’t make that decision without you, honey buns.” He got up and started pacing. “They may ask how we met.”
“That’s easy.” She bent over the dress to put in the stitches, and he nearly died. Because there was that great ass again, in all its fabulous glory as she knelt on the bed, supporting herself by her elbows as she sewed.
He swallowed down his very male reaction. Every stunned brain cell of his was now signaling that this whole date thing was a very bad idea.
“In fifth grade, you and my brother were peeking in the school windows to check out the girls at a Girl Scout meeting, and Alex and I came up behind you and scared you so badly you tumbled backwards into the bushes and got poison ivy.”
“And detention for a week, thank you very much, because you two went and tattled to Mrs. Tailor.”
She shrugged. “I was protecting my girlfriends from peeping toms.”
“Goody-goody.”
“Pervert.” She held a finger up to her chin in deep thought. “Maybe we need a better story. Something unlikely but amazing and utterly romantic.”
He rolled his eyes.
“I’ve got it!” she said. “We need a meet cute.”
She was really getting into this, and he wasn’t sure if that was good. “Sounds like a chick thing.”
“You know what a meet cute is. Like in a romantic comedy, how the two leads meet.”
“Like Richard Gere and Julia Roberts on the street corner?”
“Yes, and like in that new movie where the guy and the girl run into each other trying to be the first ones into Target on Black Friday.”
“Does she dump the entire contents of her purse all over him, too?” She looked offended and that made him grin. “Look, forget meeting cute for now. I think I should tell you a little about the other candidates. First, there’s a guy I’ve done my entire residency with. His name is Jackson. He goes by Jax. What are you doing?”
She’d run over to the desk and grabbed the notepad and pen. “Taking notes.”
“Anyway, he’s pretty competitive.”
He didn’t know what she just wrote down, but he pictured competitive. “What do you mean?” she asked.
“Always comparing numbers. How many admissions, how many procedures, how many awards. Always the first guy there for the really tough cases. The more action, the better. An adrenaline junkie. He was born to be an ER doc. And he’s good at what he does.”
She mouthed adrenaline junkie, deep in concentration as she scrawled it down. “Why does he want the job?”
“He’s got family an hour away. Thinks it might be a nice community to raise kids. His wife’s pregnant.”
“Why are you scowling?”
“Just because he’s perfect for the job. He’s the main competitor I’m worried about.”
“There’s another?”
“I’ve only met her once. Her name is Cynthia Rhodes and she’s finishing up her residency at Mass General. Her husband is a Harvard MBA. That’s all I know.”
She’d gone a little pale. “You all right?” he asked. “Need some water or something?”
“Just that I’ve lived here my entire life. I commuted to Central State for college. Everyone who’s coming tonight seems very . . . worldly.”
He reached over and squeezed her hand. “You’re the owner of an up-and-coming shop. You know everyone in town and they all love you.” Her hand was soft and warm, and it fit perfectly in his bigger one. Her gaze was filled with skepticism, like she wanted to believe him but was struggling. For the first time, he realized that she was fretting about tonight—for him. She was doing this for him, without thought of compensation. How many women could he have called upon to do the same?
Zero. But that was the way he wanted it, wasn’t it? He enjoyed being loosey-goosey, happy-go-lucky, leading the life of Riley. No commitments, no clingy, needy women, no hassles.
And no reminders of a past he’d tried hard to leave behind.
He was suddenly relieved when Meg stood and gathered up the dress. “I think we’ve covered the important points,” he said. “I’ll see you tonight down at the restaurant entrance, a little before seven thirty, okay?”
She smiled, the forced kind. He gave her a platonic little side hug. Awkward. She looked . . . worried. He didn’t want her to be worried on his behalf. “Meggie, I just want you to know how much I appreciate this. You’re the perfect date.”
Their gazes tangled again, and that same hormonal zap passed back and forth between them. Ben tapped her nose. Like she was his five-year-old niece instead of a grown woman. Like he hadn’t dated a million beautiful women. What was it about her that had him so . . . discombobulated? “Thanks for helping a guy out.” He stepped toward the door. “See you later, Princess.” Then mentally smacked himse
lf for saying and doing two of the lamest things ever.
She rolled her eyes. “Hey, Prince Charming, flattery won’t get you anywhere. And tweaking someone on the nose is sexist.”
She flashed a what-the-eff look that made him smile.
“Seven thirty, Meggie,” he called, tapping his watch. “On the dot.”
“Oh, I’ll be there. With bells on.” She flashed a wicked smile and waved her fingers as she walked past him into the hall. A crazy picture flooded his brain, of her wearing a string of jingle bells and that smile and nothing else, beckoning him with a come-hither look.
He reached up to pinch his own nose to squeeze the vision from his head. He was surprised to find his forehead covered in sweat. He was so screwed.
CHAPTER 5
Meg stepped off the notorious elevator at seven twenty-five to find Ben pacing and checking his watch next to a giant floral arrangement at the glass double-doored entrance to the restaurant. She was struck by his unusual hyperness, which underscored the high stakes that were involved for this dinner.
But mostly she enjoyed the few stolen moments of being able to unabashedly stare at how well his broad shoulders filled out his dark suit jacket, how his bright white shirt contrasted with his tanned skin, and how the tapered cut of his pants accentuated the lean muscle of his legs. A deep, reverberating thrill resounded through her entire body. How was it possible that she was actually going to spend this entire evening with him? Not a dream, not a fantasy, but flesh-and-blood real. Now that she was over the initial shock of it all, she thought of it as an opportunity. One she couldn’t screw up. Not for his sake, and not for herself.
Fortunately, Meg’s alterations to Priscilla’s dress had worked out and she’d looked as lovely as ever as she sailed off to her champagne-laden engagement party, leaving Meg free for the rest of the evening.
She realized that with all her heart, she actually wanted to be here. Despite the stress and strain, she was determined to help him through this dinner. Not that she was getting all hopeful about anything romantic starting between them, but this crazy series of events had given her an opportunity to relate to him one-on-one in a way she hadn’t for years.
This Love of Mine Page 4
