The Late Bloomer's Road to Love

by Marie Ferrarella

  “How do you know what they’re serving?”

  He smiled at her over his shoulder. “Wyatt told me, of course.”

  “Oh?” She looked at her father curiously. “What else did Wyatt tell you?”

  He looked at her, innocence personified. “Men don’t betray a trust,” he told his daughter. “You should know that.”

  She laughed, shaking her head. There was no two ways about it. Wyatt was definitely good for her father. Not only had he gotten her father capable of moving around far more easily these days, but he had done wonders for her father’s mind, as well. Always preoccupied and working at a fever pitch, her father was responding far better now than before he had had his attack. And she was grateful that his sense of humor was back.

  And it seemed to mean a lot to her father that she went on to see Wyatt outside the parameters of their day-to-day relationship.

  Not that that was any sort of hardship for her.

  The overprotective daughter belatedly rose to the surface, although she was getting better at keeping that side of herself under wraps these days. Looking around the kitchen, she asked her father, “Are you sure you can handle everything?”

  For a moment, he looked as if he was going to say something else, but then his eyes crinkled with humor as he said, “Somehow, I think I’ll manage. Now will you finally go?”

  “Okay, okay, I’m going,” she told him, then reminded her father, “Just remember, this was your idea, Dad.”

  The grin nearly split his face. “I won’t forget.”

  There was something in her father’s voice that she couldn’t quite put her finger on, but it sounded a little bit like mischievous glee.

  The next moment, grabbing her purse, Rachel quickly made her way out of the restaurant.

  She had a barbecue to get to.

  Chapter Seventeen

  Leaving her car parked on one side of the three-car driveway, Rachel locked it and ran into the house, heart hammering fast.

  She had to stop cutting it so close, she silently lectured herself. One unforeseen traffic jam and all of her plans would have been totally thrown off.

  But Rachel had put her fate in the hands of the traffic gods and prayed that if any car was going to break down or had the misfortune of running into another vehicle, it wouldn’t happen until she had cleared that area.

  Other than hearing an awful, bone-chilling noise that suddenly came from beneath her car’s hood when she took a turn far too quickly and sharply, nothing else went wrong. She made it home without any awful mishaps. Not only that, but it was still just under the time she had allotted herself.

  If she had working brain cells, Rachel told herself, she would have laid out the clothes earlier, maybe last night, or at least before she had left for work this morning. But running on what amounted to a super-tight schedule—was there any other kind?—kept her from thinking too far ahead. And that, at least for the time being, kept her from getting nervous.

  Telling herself that everything was going to go well now didn’t really help matters. Going to the barbecue was different from the celebration she had attended with Wyatt last week. As near as she could tell, there wasn’t going to be any dancing or crowds of people to disappear into until she could get her bearings, like there had been last time.

  This was more a situation where she was going to have to hit the ground running and just hope for the best.

  She was up for that, right, Rachel silently asked herself as she locked the door behind her.

  She knew enough not to answer that honestly.

  Taking a deep breath, Rachel bounded up the stairs, flew to her room and threw open the closet. She wasn’t even sure what she was going to find there. With everything that had gone on in the last two years, it had been a while since she had actually rummaged through her closet.

  Moving articles of clothing around, she honed in on a pair of form-fitting navy blue shorts and a red-and-white checkered, short-sleeved, short-waisted shirt. The outfit wasn’t exactly spectacular, Rachel thought, but somehow it did seem appropriate to her for a barbecue.

  She changed into the shorts and shirt quickly.

  What actually occupied her mind first and foremost, more than finding something to wear, was being able to bring something with her to the barbecue. Maybe it was the business she had grown up in, but it absolutely didn’t seem right to her to show up in response to an invitation empty-handed.

  Looking around in the refrigerator, Rachel immediately saw the foil-covered pan of baked ziti. She peeked under the foil and saw that the pan was entirely untouched. Her father had to have been experimenting with different cheeses and additives last night. He had a habit of never wanting his recipe to turn out exactly the same way twice in a row.

  Very carefully, Rachel slipped the pan into the oven and set to warm for fifteen minutes. While it was warming up, she went to the cupboard and took out the red padded case she used on occasion to transport meals, either to or from the restaurant. It was a safe way to carry the pan and it kept the heat in.

  She had just finished depositing the warmed-up ziti into the carrying case when she heard the doorbell ring.

  After stripping off her gloves, she glanced at her watch and sighed. The man was uncanny. He was right on the dot. She had a feeling that it was a habit ingrained in him from a young age by his mother. Ariel Watson didn’t remind her of a woman who tolerated lateness.

  Pulling off the apron she had hastily donned, Rachel made her way over to the front door, opened it and smiled up at Wyatt.

  “Hi, you’re right on time as always,” Rachel told him.

  Wyatt took a good look at her. The woman had legs that just didn’t seem to quit, he thought, looking at the way the shorts fit her. He hadn’t realized just how gorgeous she could look in shorts.

  “And you,” he responded belatedly, his eyes devouring her, “look really delicious.” The words replayed themselves in his ears and he flushed slightly. “Sorry,” he apologized, “that came out before I could censor myself.”

  Rachel could feel heat rising to her cheeks. It wasn’t that she didn’t like being complimented, she just didn’t know how to respond.

  Looking at the floor, she shrugged. “I guess I can forgive you,” she murmured.

  “Oh, good, that takes a weight off my mind,” he quipped, in turn flashing a wicked grin at her.

  Feeling he should come in just in case she wasn’t ready to leave yet, Wyatt took two steps into the house. He was immediately struck by the aroma that was wafting all around, teasing his taste buds and making him all but salivate.

  “What is that fantastic smell?” he asked. He took in another deep breath, trying to zero in on the aroma and pinpoint what it was. He knew her father was working at the restaurant. That left just her. He looked at Rachel in surprise. “Have you been cooking?” Wyatt asked. Why would she do that? They were going to be eating at his friends’ house. “I told you I was taking you to a barbecue.”

  “Yes, I know,” she answered. “And I thought it was only right to bring something with me.”

  “You are,” Wyatt told her with a smile. Spreading his arms out, he inclined his head and told her, “You’re bringing me.”

  “I know,” she answered. “But this will be a bit tastier.”

  She indicated the food carrier into which she’d packed the pan of baked ziti. She knew her father wouldn’t mind her taking it. He was the one who had taught her not to show up empty-handed if she was invited anywhere.

  Wyatt’s eyes held hers for a long moment and his mouth curved. “Are you sure about that?” he asked in a voice she couldn’t call anything but sexy.

  Rachel could feel herself responding to the tall well-built man, but this was neither the time nor the place to give in. She had a feeling that if she did, even just for a moment, they would never make it to the barbecue.
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  Or even out the door.

  “I think we need to go,” she told Wyatt, taking a step back to put at least a little distance between them. “My father maintains that if you’re invited somewhere, it’s rude to turn up late.”

  Her back to Wyatt now, she made sure that the zipper was secure all the way around the carrier. It would be terrible—not to mention an awful waste—to have the contents of the pan come tumbling out, sending everything straight to the ground.

  “I’ll carry that out for you,” Wyatt volunteered, “but when we get to the barbecue, you’re going to have to help me beat back my friends.” She looked at him quizzically. “One whiff of this and I guarantee they’ll forget all about the barbecue.”

  ‘”That doesn’t sound as if you think all that much of this barbecue,” she told him. “Or the barbecuing abilities of the person in charge of it.” She had to have misunderstood him.

  “Well, to be honest, I don’t. I mean, we’re not going to be poisoned or anything,” he said quickly. “But we get together for the camaraderie of the thing, not the food.” He nodded down at the carrier in his hands, saying, “At least until now.” He grinned at her as they walked to his vehicle. “If I know my friends, once they sample that baked ziti, they’re going to insist I bring you to all our gatherings from now on.”

  He was getting carried away, she thought. “Why don’t we see how they feel about it first?” Rachel suggested. “They might hate it—or feel as if I was trying to show up the host—or hostess.”

  The moment the words were out of her mouth, she suddenly realized the import of what she was saying. “They won’t think that, will they?” she asked, worried, as she got in on her side.

  Wyatt placed the red carrier with the baked ziti pan on the back seat behind the driver’s side. He pulled a seat belt around it, all but tucking it in to make sure the carrier wouldn’t go flying toward the front if he came to an unexpected, sudden stop.

  Finished, he shook his head as he came around to the driver’s seat. “You realize that you worry way too much, don’t you?”

  It wasn’t a criticism, it was meant to help calm her down.

  “No, I don’t,” she protested. Then, in a quieter voice, she murmured with a shrug, “I don’t get out on my own that much.”

  “You won’t be out on your own,” he quickly reminded her. “I’ll be with you—and it will all be fine. You look great,” he emphasized again. “And the aroma from the baked ziti will anesthetize all of them. Hard for anyone to be the least bit unfriendly when they’re salivating,” he told her.

  Rachel laughed. She didn’t know how Wyatt managed to do it, but the man did have a way of saying things that just made her feel good inside. Not to mention that he made her laugh.

  And it really did make her feel good to laugh.

  Rachel settled back in her seat, finally getting comfortable.

  “So tell me about these people at the barbecue,” she asked. She wanted to be prepared just in case there might be surprises. She didn’t want to get blindsided if it turned out that one of the women there had been engaged to Wyatt at one time, or that they had a history that went way back.

  He thought for a moment, sifting through information. Glancing at Rachel, he shook his head. “Not much to tell. There’ll be six of them there this afternoon. Adam, Jenny, Mike, Lucy, Gordon and Cindy,” he enumerated.

  “And you?” she questioned. Did he realize that the way he put it made him the odd man in this gathering? Four guys and three women. Had it always been that way, or was there a fourth woman who was no longer included in their ranks?

  “And me,” he answered with a nod. “We all went to elementary school together, so we go way back.”

  “The way you went over their names, you made it sound as if they were paired off,” she pointed out, wondering if that was on purpose, or if it was just the way he thought of them.

  “They are,” he told her. “Now. It didn’t start out that way, though. But looking back, I guess it was kind of inevitable. I think that they were perfect for one another,” he said, remembering certain instances.

  That led her to feel that his friends could only come to one conclusion when they walked in. “Does that mean that they are going to think that we’re a couple?”

  “We’re just friends,” he said quickly, not because he thought that, but because he felt she would be more comfortable if it was presented that way.

  But after a moment, he knew he had to ask. “Would it bother you if they thought we were?”

  “I’d want to know how you felt about it first,” she told him without hesitation.

  She was hedging, he thought, and he didn’t know if that was for self-preservation, or because she was trying to get him to commit himself first.

  Two could play that game. “Depends on how you felt,” he countered.

  She couldn’t help but laugh. “We’re going to dance around this all afternoon, aren’t we?”

  “Maybe. Maybe not,” he said with a wide smile as he slanted a glance in her direction. “Do you have a preference which it is?”

  She did. But she didn’t want to scare him off or say anything that might jeopardize the possible relationship what was, if anything, still in its infancy.

  “I do,” she whispered.

  The words skimmed along his neck, warming him. Tantalizing him. He found himself wishing that they were going to his place instead of to his friends’ barbecue. “But you’re not going to tell me?” he guessed.

  “Not yet.” Her smile was wide and seemed to tell him things her words couldn’t. “Let’s see how the baked ziti goes over.”

  “Well, if that’s the criterion, you might as well get used to the commitment, because I can tell you right now, none of my friends were born without taste buds. One deep breath—forget about actually taking a bite out of what you just brought over—and I guarantee that they’ll be yours for life.”

  “Let’s just wait and see,” she told him.

  “Whatever makes you happy,” he said cheerfully. “But I can tell you now, they’ll love the ziti.”

  She nodded, thinking that Wyatt was being a little too optimistic. “Is there anything else I should know?”

  “Other than letting yourself have a good time?” he asked pointedly.

  “Yes, other than that.”

  He shook his head. “I can’t think of a thing offhand—or on hand,” he added, aiming a look in her direction.

  She pressed her lips together to keep the rest of her questions under wraps for now. She didn’t want him to grow annoyed—not that he ever had, but there was always a first time.

  * * *

  They arrived at their destination within ten minutes.

  She saw that there were several cars in the driveway. That made it necessary to park a little ways down by the curb. The moment he stopped his car and they got out, they heard loud voices—and deep laughter.

  It sounded as if everyone there was having a good time.

  “Looks like everyone’s here,” Wyatt told her, pausing to uncouple the seat belt in the back seat so he could take the carrier with Rachel’s contribution to the festivities out of the vehicle.

  Rachel paused to listen. “That sounds like a lot more people than just six,” she told him.

  Wyatt laughed. “They have a tendency to sound like they’re a crowd,” he agreed, “but trust me, what you’re hearing is just six very loud, very happy people enjoying each other’s company.”

  With the carrier secure in both hands, Wyatt nodded toward Rachel. “Ready?” he asked.

  “Why wouldn’t I be?” she asked even as she took in a deep breath.

  Wyatt bent his head in closer toward her. “It might help if you didn’t look as if you were braced to swallow a dose of some awful, gut-wrenching medicine. Trust me, my friends are all harmless. Every singl
e one of them,” he promised, adding, “You’re going to have fun. Besides, they’ll all be too busy eating the baked ziti you brought to even notice that you’re wearing two different shoes.”

  Her eyes widened and her mouth dropped open. “I am?” she cried before she had a chance to even look down at her feet.

  She wasn’t.

  He had the good grace not to laugh, at least not out loud, when she shot him a dirty look.

  “No, you’re not. Rachel, you really have to learn how to relax. I’ve got an idea. We’re going to make going out a weekly thing until you get comfortable enough not to think of it as a big deal.” And then he added, “You’ve just become my new project.”

  She sincerely doubted that she would ever get comfortable enough going out with him not to think of it as a big deal.

  Out loud she informed him, “I’m not a project.”

  “Oh, I kind of think you are,” Wyatt countered, his eyes shining as they swept over her very slowly. “A really nice, interesting project.”

  What was that supposed to mean? The question hammered in her mind. She was about to ask for an explanation.

  And then the front door suddenly opened. The voices grew louder. There was no more time for an argument—or a discussion, depending on how either of them viewed the verbal exchange.

  Chapter Eighteen

  “Hi, stranger, nice to know that you’re still among the living,” the petite brunette who had answered the door declared.

  Grinning, Jenny Russell attempted to give Wyatt, whom she had known ever since she was a very little girl, a quick, enthusiastic hug. But she discovered that he had something large and cumbersome in his hands that blocked her quick display of affection.

  Taking a step back, the young woman looked at what had stopped her full-on embrace.

  “And you’ve come bearing gifts—or food, by the smell of it,” she concluded with a delighted laugh.

  “Actually, this is Rachel’s donation to the festivities. She made this,” Wyatt told his friend, nodding at the carrier. And then he quickly made the necessary introductions before either woman could ask. “Jenny, this is Rachel Fenelli. Rachel, this is my really good friend Jenny Russell.”