Good Guy Heroes Boxed Set

by Julie Ortolon

  In spite of himself, Chris felt a chuckle rumble in his chest. He quickly smothered it. Why the hell did he feel like laughing? He was angry. Inconvenienced. Wet. Hungry. His suit was ruined; probably his shoes, too. Clearly he was deranged from lack of food.

  “So, are you going to tell me your name?” she asked. “Don’t be shy. Believe me, it can’t be worse than mine. No matter how hard I try, no one will call me Melanie.”

  He held out his hand. “Christopher Bishop. Call me Chris.”

  She shook his hand, and to his surprise a warm tingle zoomed through him. This woman was so completely not his type, it was laughable. He preferred petite, curvy, blue-eyed blondes. Mel Gibson with the broken-down Dodge was tall, lanky, and dark-eyed. Not to mention a mess.

  Yet there was something about her that had all his senses standing at attention. He shook his head. Must be because she smelled like food and the final stages of malnutrition were setting in.

  Her look turned serious. “I really am sorry I blocked you in. And about your pants.” She reached into her shirt pocket and withdrew a card. “If you send the repair bill to me, I’ll be happy to pay it.”

  He took the wet card and studied her closely. Now that home was again fifteen minutes away and the rain had dwindled down to a mere drizzle, his annoyance dissipated. “I doubt they can be repaired, but thanks anyway.” He leaned closer and sniffed. “I saw you on the elevator. You smell like fried chicken.”

  She cocked an eyebrow at him. “Wow. Words I’ve always longed to hear.”

  He laughed. “I meant, I smelled you in the elevator and …” His voice trailed off and he shook his head. “Somehow that doesn’t sound right, either.”

  “That’s okay. I smelled you in the elevator, too. You smell much better than chicken.”

  “Not if you’re starving.” As if on cue his stomach let out a loud growl.

  “Well, Christopher-call-me-Chris Bishop, you sound hungry, and I happen to have three hundred bucks’ worth of Pampered Palate food in my car. Could I interest you in a meal? As a way of saying thanks?” She smiled. “We make the best fried chicken in Atlanta.”

  Since he was ready to eat the windshield wipers off the Mercedes, he didn’t even consider refusing her offer. “Sounds good.”

  She handed him the umbrella and leaned into the car, once again affording him a heart-stopping view of her long legs. She straightened and handed him two to-go boxes. “Here you go. Enjoy.”

  He barely held back a groan at the mouthwatering aroma emanating from the boxes. “Thanks.”

  “Least I can do. Well, I’d better let you get home to your dinner.” She slid into the Dodge and waved to him. He nodded in return and walked to his car.

  Melanie clicked her seat belt into place and pushed her wet hair behind her ears, trying not to watch him as he climbed into the Mercedes. Whooooeee. Christopher Bishop was one fine looking specimen.

  He was gorgeous when he frowned, but when he’d smiled at her, yikes! His was the sort of smile that made knees go weak and panties fall off. Dry, he was beautiful. But wet? Utterly stupendous. Looking at him, with his dress shirt molded to his muscular arms and chest and his hair combed back by his hands, she got a clear image of what he must look like coming out of the shower. Thank God she wasn’t a cartoon character— her eyes would have bugged out two feet and her tongue would have rolled out onto the ground.

  Well, she’d never see him again. Good thing, too. Any guy who looked that good and smelled that good was a hazard to her mental health. She knew firsthand that men who looked like Christopher Bishop couldn’t be trusted. Brokenhearted women probably littered the sidewalks around his house. Yup, he had girl in every port written all over him. Been there. Done that. Never again.

  She put the Dodge in gear and pulled forward, driving to the end of the curved driveway. The moment her foot touched the brake, the car stalled.

  “Oh, no. Not again.” She turned the key. Growl, growl, silence. She turned it again. Growl, silence. One more turn. Silence. She looked around her. At least she wasn’t completely blocking the driveway. Cars could get around her. She was just contemplating the wisdom of screaming and pulling out her hair when a horn tooted. She looked out her window and saw the Mercedes pull up next to her.

  She felt around on the seat for the missing knob then jammed it back on and rolled down the window. Christopher Bishop looked at her from the driver’s seat of his car.

  “What’s wrong?” he called.

  “I stalled out.”

  “There must be something more wrong than the battery,” he said, frowning. “Probably faulty spark plugs or a wet distributor cap.”

  “Oh.” Faulty spark plugs. And her thingamabob was wet. Swell.

  “I’d try drying it off for you, but there’s not much point as long as it’s still drizzling.”

  Melanie muttered an oath that would make Nana blush. Now what? It would seem a call to Nana was in order. She rolled up the window, opened the door, and slid out. No point bothering with the umbrella. The rain was now nothing more than an annoying drip-drip, and she was soaked anyway. And barefoot. She refused to again wonder if this day could get any worse, because clearly it still could.

  She’d only taken two steps when she heard Chris yell, “Where are you going?”

  She turned. He stood next to his car, munching on a chicken leg. “I’m going to call someone to pick me up.”

  “You don’t have a cell phone?”

  “My car battery isn’t the only one that died tonight.”

  “Somehow that doesn’t surprise me.”

  She looked down at her wet, messy, barefooted self and gave a short laugh. “Really? Seems like a real shocker to me.”

  He laughed. “You can use my cell if you want. Or… ” He hesitated a second, then said, “I could drop you off. But I warn you, it’s gonna cost you some more food.” He took another bite and groaned as he chewed. “This is seriously great chicken.”

  Melanie considered his offer. Nana would have to close up shop to rescue her. Besides, her grandmother shouldn’t drive— she was a hazard on the road, especially at night. That was why Melanie had made the deliveries tonight— she’d been elected by default.

  Christopher Bishop seemed like a decent guy. He certainly wasn’t hard to look at, he smelled great, and he hadn’t made any untoward gestures when she’d been sprawled across his lap. Besides, she had pepper spray in her glove compartment. She’d bring it with her. One false move and the guy would be toast. Pepper toast.

  “How much more food?” she asked.

  “How much ya got?”

  She laughed. “I’ll trade you a ride to the Pampered Palate for two more chicken dinners. It’s just a few miles down the road. On Peachtree.”

  “Deal. Let’s go.”

  While he transferred the heavy box from the Dodge to the Mercedes, Melanie grabbed her purse and stuck the pepper spray inside. Hey, a girl could never be too careful.

  She slid into the soft leather passenger seat of the luxurious Mercedes and sighed. A classic Billy Joel tune flowed from the stereo. “Nice car. It still smells new.”

  “I only bought it two months ago,” he said, easing his way into the Friday-night traffic. “A present to myself for making partner.”

  “You’re a lawyer?” she asked, praying he wasn’t from Slickert, Cashman, and Rich.

  “No. Accountant.”

  “Ah. And you work in that office building?”

  “Yup. Twenty-fifth floor.”

  “Aren’t you kinda young to be a partner?”

  He shrugged. “I brought in a few key clients so they fast-tracked me.”

  She cocked her head toward the CD player. “You a Billy Joel fan?”

  “Everybody from New York is a Billy Joel fan.”

  She stared at his profile. “You’re from New York?”

  “That’s not a crime, you know.”

  “Of course it isn’t. I’m originally from the Big Apple myself. I only m
oved here a few years ago.”

  “I thought I detected a bit of an accent. What part of New York?”

  “Long Island. You?”

  “Westchester.” He briefly turned his head and smiled. “Seems like everybody in Atlanta is from somewhere else. What brought you down south?”

  “I couldn’t afford New York. Atlanta’s a happenin’ place, the weather’s great, and it’s affordable. So here I am.” She tapped her bare foot to the music. “Have you lived here long?”

  “Since high school. My dad was transferred during my sophomore year.”

  She winced in sympathy. “That must have been tough.”

  “At the time, I thought it was the end of the world. I think I set a world record for complaining.”

  “Considering the way you carried on about being blocked in, I’m not surprised to hear it,” Melanie said in a dust dry tone.

  “Very funny. So, how long have you worked for the Pampered Palate?”

  “Ever since it opened six months ago. Actually, I own it. Well, me and the bank. That fried chicken is our bestselling item. It’s Nana’s secret recipe and she guards it with her life.”

  “Nana?”

  “My Grandma Sylvia. I’ve always called her Nana. We live together and she helps out in the kitchen.”

  “Do you usually make your own deliveries?”

  Melanie shook her head. “My delivery man called in sick at the last minute. Nana offered to step in, but as much as I love her, she’s a menace on the road. Sort of a cross between Mario Andretti and Mr. Magoo. Anyway, we offer free delivery on orders over a hundred dollars. That’s mostly corporate accounts.”

  She slanted him a sidelong look. “Our motto is, ‘If it’s not delivered on time, it’s on us.’ That’s why I double-parked.” She jerked her head toward the backseat. “I had five minutes to get that box of food upstairs or I was out three hundred bucks.”

  “Why do you still have it?”

  “The customers had some sort of emergency. They called and canceled the order, but I’d already left. Nana called my cell, but you already know my sad battery story.”

  “Who was the order for?”

  “Slickert, Cashman, and Rich, Attorneys at Law. Thirtieth floor. I wonder what happened.”

  “Walter Rich was rushed to the hospital,” Chris said.

  Dismay filled Melanie. “Oh, no! Is he okay?”

  “He slipped and fell. His leg is broken and he might have cracked a few ribs. The ambulance came around seven.”

  “How awful. Which hospital was he taken to?”

  “Piedmont, I think.”

  “I’ll have to call and find out how he is,” Melanie said. “He’s such a nice man, and one of my best customers. He looks just like— “

  “Santa Claus without the beard,” they said in unison. Chris grinned. “My firm audits them. Walter’s a great guy.”

  He maneuvered the Mercedes into the small parking lot adjacent to the Pampered Palate. “Here we are. I’ll help you with the box.”

  Melanie held the door for him and they walked into the small front room of the brightly lit store. No one stood behind the glossy dark green granite counter, decorated with a vase of cheerful flowers and a stack of takeout menus. The gleaming parquet floor lent the small space a cozy feel, while the cream-colored walls gave it a dignified air. No tables. Until she could afford a larger space, the Pampered Palate was strictly takeout.

  When she saw him looking around, Melanie said, “I know it’s small, but I’m hoping to grow. I want to buy a delivery truck and do private catering on the weekends then eventually expand into a full restaurant.”

  “Ambitious goals,” he said, nodding, “but if your food is any indication of your talents, I’m sure you’ll succeed.”

  “Thanks.” She set her purse on the counter. “I really appreciate the ride. It was very nice of you, especially considering the inconvenience I caused you.”

  “What are you going to do about your car?”

  Melanie shrugged. “I’m not sure. The only person I know who knows anything about cars is my delivery man, and he’s sick.”

  “You can’t leave it parked in that driveway the whole weekend. It’ll get towed.”

  Towed. She hadn’t thought of that. Just what she needed— another expense. “I’ll think of something,” she said.

  He set the box down on the counter, and Melanie smothered a laugh. The rip in his pants was a good six inches across. A patch of white boxer briefs stuck out, complete with a smear of barbecue sauce. She smiled and pulled out two dinners.

  “Hey, Melanie!” Nana’s scratchy voice reached them. The woman who walked in from the kitchen was a cross between Julia Child and the Energizer Bunny. She stared at Chris. “Jiminy Cricket. Who’s the babe magnet?”

  Melanie coughed to cover up a laugh. “Nana, this is Christopher Bishop. I had some car trouble and he gave me a ride.”

  “Sylvia Gibson,” Nana said, sticking out flour-dusted fingers.

  Chris shook her hand. “Nice to meet you. You make the best fried chicken I’ve ever tasted.”

  Nana blushed and patted her short, frizzy, bright red hair. “Call me Nana. So, you after my granddaughter or what?”

  “Nana!”

  “She’s a great cook and she’s single,” her grandmother continued, unrepentant. “Drives a piece of crap for a car, but she won’t give it up. She’s stubborn but good-hearted, and loves kids and pets.” She peered at him over her bifocals. “What do you think?”

  Melanie groaned and covered her eyes with her hands, but Chris just smiled. He leaned close to Nana’s fire-engine red hair and said, “I think I’m going to charm her out of some more chicken, then see if I can talk her into parting with a piece of that cheesecake in the display case.”

  Nana laughed and slapped her knee, sending her knee-high stocking down to her ankle. “Well, good luck, son. Mel hasn’t parted with any cheesecake in quite a while. I keep telling her to loosen up a little, but does she listen to me? No. All she does is work, work, work.”

  She turned to Melanie, who felt as if the fires of hell were burning in her cheeks. “I’d hold onto this one if I were you. He’s cute, smart, and he’s got a great butt. Needs some new pants, though. I don’t care for this fashion of lettin’ your drawers hang out of holes in your britches. At least the hole’s in the back, otherwise we’d see his— “

  “Thank you, Nana,” Melanie broke in hastily. “Why don’t you head back to the kitchen? I’ll be right there.”

  Nana fixed Chris with a stern glare. “You fix up those pants, young man, before you call on my granddaughter.”

  Chris gave a smart salute. “Yes, ma’am.”

  “And clean that barbecue sauce off your ass,” Nana said over her shoulder as she exited.

  Melanie smothered a chuckle, not sure what amused her more— Nana’s remark or Chris’s bemused expression.

  “Sorry about that. Nana’s sort of outspoken. She’s loveable, but keeps forgetting I’m not six years old.”

  Chris nodded. I know the type.”

  Melanie opened her mouth to ask him… something, but she completely forgot what as she looked at him, really looked at him for the first time in the bright light. Whoa. His good looks were no illusion caused by darkness or rain. He was a veritable DNA masterpiece.

  Whatever gene pool he swam out of deserved its own display at the Smithsonian. His thick mahogany hair beckoned her fingers to ruffle through it. And his eyes reminded Melanie of her favorite color from her childhood Crayola crayons, midnight blue. Her gaze settled on his lips. How they managed to look soft and firm at the same time she didn’t know, but it proved a potent combination. An unbidden image of him kissing her flashed through her mind. Full-blown lust slammed into her so hard she gasped.

  “What’s wrong?” he asked. “Do I have chicken stuck between my teeth?”

  She yanked her gaze up and heat scorched her cheeks at the speculative look in his eyes. Crap. It was one thi
ng to ogle a guy, but totally another to get caught doing it. An embarrassed laugh escaped her. “No, no chicken. I was, er, just… “

  “Staring.” He took a step closer to her, and Melanie’s heart shifted into overdrive. “You were staring at me.”

  Melanie averted her eyes, ready to deny his words when she caught a glimpse of her reflection in the glass door. Her short, curly hair stuck up from her head at all angles— like hundreds of tiny vacuum cleaner hoses had sucked it up. No shoes, wrinkled shirt, and her face… good grief, her face. No need to wonder if she’d used waterproof mascara this morning.

  She hadn’t.

  Just her luck. Here she stood, looking like the creature from the black lagoon, while Chris appeared as if he’d just wandered in from some modeling assignment. Story of her life. She was cursed with permanent when-my-ship-comes-in-I’ll-be-at-the-airport syndrome, while he looked as if he’d never miss the boat.

  “You okay?” he asked.

  Melanie shook her head. “I just caught a glimpse of myself. Yikes. I’m surprised you didn’t run screaming from the store the moment we arrived.”

  He tilted his head and studied her like an art patron assessing a Picasso. “You look like a raccoon.”

  She pasted a sticky-sweet smile on her face. “Thanks. I guess I won’t take offense, since the source of that opinion is a guy whose ass is hanging out of his pants.”

  “Touché.” Laughing, he touched a finger to the black smudge under her right eye. “I have three sisters. I’m used to this look. Besides, I bet you clean up pretty good.”

  Melanie tried to swallow and couldn’t. The moment he touched her with that single gentle fingertip, all the spit in her mouth dried up and left her tongue feeling like dust.

  He glanced at his watch and frowned. “Listen, it’s late and I need to go before I fall asleep on my feet.” He picked up the two boxed dinners she’d set aside. “Thanks for the chicken.”

  Melanie cleared her throat. He was the most gorgeous man she’d ever met, and he was leaving. She’d never see him again. Good. Fine. She didn’t have time for men anyway. Men were nothing but pains in the tush. She knew that all too well. Yes, indeed. She could thank her ex-fiance for that lesson. And the better-looking they were, the worse they were. This guy probably had more notches on his bedpost than a rock star. Yup, it was a good thing he was leaving. She wanted nothing to do with—