Slow Ride
Carrie Alexander
When three women go to a "lock and key" party to meet sexy singles, they never expect to find their perfect matches…in love and in bed!When Aurora "Rory" Constable and Tucker Schulz are thrown together at a "lock and key" party, the attraction is undeniable. Despite the simmering sexual tension between them, they decide to fight their feelings and just be friends…until they win a weekend together to explore all the other ways they could fit together….With Tucker's skillful hands all over her before they even set out, Rory is soon hot and bothered. Cooling down with the resort's specialty drink–liquid sex–isn't likely to help! How is she going to maintain her "friends only" no-sex vow when she's this close to a man she wants day and night?
She needed him inside her
She was fixated on it, waiting breathlessly for him to take her. She needed it badly. Now.
His fingers danced between her thighs, then retreated to stroke her backside, each intimate touch sending another shock wave reverberating through her. His tongue swirled into the shallow cup of her belly button. Even that was intense and erotic.
“It’s okay,” Rory said, pushing to her elbows. “I’m ready. You can—uh…you know.”
Tucker looked up, his expression as taunting as his fingers. “Tell me.”
She did. Two words that left nothing to the imagination. No sense in being coy about it.
“I’ll get to that,” he promised, “soon enough.”
“But you must be hurting by now. I know I am.”
He smiled tightly. “Let me take this trip my way. The slow, scenic route.”
“Whatever you like. But don’t say I didn’t offer.”
His hot-as-sin gaze traveled down her body. “Darling, there’s no missing your open invitation.”
Dear Reader,
Do you believe in fate? I often wonder how couples that were “meant to be” find each other. Fate’s got to play a part. But if that’s so, what happens when fate is fiddled with? Or was that also meant to be? Hmm…
Tucker and Rory, the fated couple in the third book of the LOCK & KEY trilogy, come together at a key party, where random matches are the name of the game. Or maybe not.
With this book I wanted to explore a different type of falling in love. Not love at first sight, but a slower realization that relies on an attraction of minds and personalities as well as physical heat. Though there’s no lack of that, for certain!
I hope you enjoy traveling with Tucker and Rory on their Slow Ride to love.
Carrie Alexander
Slow Ride
Carrie Alexander
www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)
For my key partners, Jamie and Shannon, with thanks and appreciation. Working with two of my favorite writers was a true pleasure!
Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
1
“WANT TO SLIP IT TO ME?” a sultry, spray-tanned blonde said to Tucker Schulz at the crowded entrance of Clementine’s. When he paused, astonished, she giggled and leaned over to shimmy her breasts against his arm. “Your key, silly boy.” Her shiny lips puckered as she ran her hand over his midriff. “Mmm…to start with, anyway. Nice abs.”
He realized that he was supposed to insert his key into the locket nestled between her cleavage and his biceps. This would entail prying his hand out of the pocket of the black denim jeans that had suddenly grown tight.
“I’ll catch you later,” he said to the willing blonde, strangely unwilling himself. The meat market at the Marina dance clubs wasn’t his usual scene. Then again, neither was turning women down.
“Remind me again why I’m here,” he shouted to his old friend, Nolan Baylor, as they entered the hot, pulsing atmosphere of the high-decibel party. Clementine’s, a popular nightclub that featured gold-rush decor juxtaposed with a contemporary dance floor, was packed with a shrill crowd of young, single and trendy San Franciscans. Tonight’s event was a charity key party. The expectation of sexual chemistry was so thick in the air Tuck could taste it in the back of his throat.
“See there, at three o’clock?” Nolan nudged Tucker with his elbow. Their eyes followed the swaying mini-skirt of a Chinese enchantress whose slim hips could probably talk dirty in five languages. “That’s why you’re here. The hot babes.”
Beneath his breath, Tuck whistled appreciatively. “Nope, that’s why you are here. But wasn’t it supposed to be one hot babe in particular?”
Nolan nodded. “Doesn’t hurt to look.”
“It’ll hurt plenty if Mikki catches you.” Tuck chuckled as a server skimmed by with a tray of used glasses. “The phrase ‘balls on a platter’ comes to mind.”
Nolan took the familiar ribbing with a wry grin. On a mission to find his ex-wife, Mikki Corelli, he’d donated a small fortune to the charity’s building fund to guarantee the reunion via the supposedly random matching of locks and keys guests had received at the door as they’d turned in their tickets.
“Unlock the Possibilities” was the theme for the evening. Tuck fingered the small key he’d shoved into his jeans’ pocket. He’d rather be opening a cold beer and kicking back to watch the Giants play the Mariners, but when a buddy needed a wingman….
“Did you wear a cup?” he asked, thinking of Mikki and the stilettos she favored.
Nolan placed a defensive hand over his fly. His laugh wasn’t altogether convincing. “You’ll have to be my bodyguard.”
“No way. I’m not getting between you and Mikki on this one.” Nolan planned to tell the hot little mama whom he’d married during law school that their quickie Mexican divorce decree had crumbled like a cheap tortilla. Her explosion might rock harder than the Northridge earthquake.
“You do have my sympathy,” Tuck added as they pushed deeper into the crowd. One zap of Mikki Corelli’s electric-blue eyes could shock a man to the core, even when he wasn’t delivering unwelcome news.
But that was Nolan and Mikki. They were meant for each other, even if their love-hate relationship was too tempestuous for Tuck’s taste.
Keeping his dealings with women at a flirtatious level was his preference, one that had worked out fine for him ever since he’d been fifteen and asked his very first blonde to come for a ride. Surfboards, motorbikes, convertibles…himself. Any conveyance would do, as long as the coupling was fast and sweet.
He was thirty-two now, which added up to seventeen years of fast rides.
Sweat sprang up on the nape of Tucker’s neck. He pulled at the collar of the nancy-boy purple silk shirt his older sister Didi had forced on him. Either he was too old for this game or the weekly—sometimes daily—haranguing of his four siblings was finally getting to him. Happily married one and all, they thought Tuck’s life wouldn’t be complete until he was, too. And they weren’t shy about airing their opinions and advice.
They’d already been successful at luring him into a permanent address. Several of the family had invested in an apartment building that he managed and lived in while completing the lengthy renovation process.
Marriage was the logical next step; Didi was pressing the charms of her single friend Charla hard. If Tuck wasn’t careful about what bed he hopped into, one of these mornings he’d wake up to find himself fully settled down with a wife beside him and a passel of kids in the next room.
Nolan stopped short. “There she is.”
Tucker gazed past his friend, who was clad in a black polo shirt that might do as a shroud after Mikki got her hands on her once-and-present husband.
“Go on. Make your move.” Tuck pressed a knuckle into the small of Nolan’s back. The man could talk circles around opposing counsel in court. Facing the lash of Mikki’s sharp tongue and hot temper shouldn’t faze him.
But she just might knock him out of his designer loafers, at least temporarily.
Mikki’s dark head had snapped up. She turned slightly away from a small table crowded with drinks and food, ignoring her two companions as her eyes locked with Nolan’s. Tucker watched with interest. Either a head-to-head challenge or spontaneous combustion was in the offing.
Nolan’s features had tensed. “She’s as beautiful as ever,” he said under his breath.
“Gorgeous,” Tuck agreed. Personally, he was partial to blondes, but there was nothing on Mikki that he’d say no to—if she hadn’t been claimed by his best friend from the moment that the two had met in law school.
Nolan strode over to the table, radiating such an intense heat that the crowd parted in front of him. A small white-gold key had appeared in his hand.
Tuck followed. He knew exactly what would happen when that key made its way to Mikki’s lock, but he still wanted a ringside seat for the show.
“What the hell are you doing here?” she snapped.
“Nice to see you again, too, Mikki.” Wisely, Nolan slipped the key back into his pocket. He’d always been a man to pick his moments, as opposed to Tucker, who took things as they came.
While the pair struck at each other like flint and steel, Tucker glanced over at the two women at Mikki’s table. Her sisters, according to Nolan. Foster sisters, in fact, which explained their presence to support the cause of Maureen Baxter’s transitional halfway house. Both wore the suitcase locket on a chain around their necks, symbolic of the disrupted lives of the troubled teenage girls Maureen Baxter aimed to help.
“You remember Tuck,” Nolan was saying in a tone that betrayed his need for a temporary buffer from Mikki’s ire.
Mikki’s scowl was replaced with a generous smile. She and Tucker had always been friendly, even when he’d had to stand by his man Nolan during their rancorous split.
She climbed down from her perch on the stool and gave him a heartfelt hug. In the next minute she was introducing him to her sisters.
The first one’s name was lost in the din. His eyes slid past her to the other as Mikki said, “And this is Lauren Massey.” He nodded as she continued. “Tucker Schulz. He and Nolan have been friends for…”
“More years than I care to keep track of,” Tuck said, deciding that seventeen years of brotherly bonding and flirtatious females was just about right, after all. He flashed a devil-may-care grin at the blonde.
Lauren was a slim woman with a froth of honey-colored curls, prettily dressed in sleeveless peach silk. More his type than the other sister, but after a brief hello she made her excuses and departed. He’d missed his shot at trying his key on her.
Tucker shrugged. Easy come, easy go. He eyed the abandoned stool, well in range of the sparks that Mikki and Nolan were still striking off each other. Mikki was trying to leave, and if the fierce light in Nolan’s eyes was any indication, he wasn’t about to let her go without a fight.
Good for him. Tuck slid into place, snagged a server to request a beer, then remembered the brunette sister remaining at the table, a glass of white wine in front of her. She was the eldest, he recalled. A hippie like her mother, according to Nolan. If so, she’d forgotten to sign up for the retro-issue love beads and headbands.
Tucker gave her a quick once-over. Curved wings of nut-brown hair framed her calm face. She had a strong nose and jaw, paired with a wide mouth painted a shiny plum color. Even sitting, he could see that she was tall and comfortably built—statuesque, he guessed. There was a casual but well-taken-care-of air about her that spoke of salons and designer labels.
Generally he preferred women who romped on the beach without a care in the world. But there was something about Mikki’s sister. The longer he looked, the more he liked. He found himself drawn to her bare arms and hands, struck by the elegance of her long fingers, the graceful turn of a wrist beneath a heavy silver bangle. Instinct told him she’d be good with her hands, talented with her fingers. He could easily imagine her sliding them across his body….
She lifted the glass of wine. One eyebrow arched.
He nodded. “I’m sorry. I missed your name.”
She tilted a haughty chin at him. “Aurora Constable. But you can call me Rory.”
He leaned closer to hear. Her voice was low and smooth, soothing among the high-pitched shrieks of the other women. “What kind of a name is Aurora?” he asked, raising his voice above the live band playing an eclectic mix of jazz, swing and pop.
“From the Aurora Borealis. Northern Lights. My mother claimed she saw them over Woodstock on the night I was conceived, but I have my doubts. Woodstock, colored lights dancing in the sky, sex that was an out-of-body experience…” Rory shrugged, then caught her shawl from slipping down her arms. “You do the math.”
He grinned. “At least you got an interesting story out of it. A genuine Woodstock baby. Don’t think I’ve ever met one.”
“Oh, many make the claim, but few are the genuine article. My mother’s been known to tell a few wild tales. This one I believe. My birthdate proves it, although I was born on a commune in Oregon. We didn’t come to California until I was six.” She stopped and bit her lip. “I’m talking too much. Sorry.”
“No problem.” He scanned the crowd. Couples were quickly pairing off as keys found their way to the matching locks. The flirtatious procedure was producing much laughter and raunchy banter. He could have been off among them, searching for his soul mate for the night, but he’d been raised with manners. For now, he’d stick with Rory.
“What about you?” She pushed a plate of pastries toward him. “Try one.”
He picked up a cream puff drizzled with chocolate. “I’m a native Californian. Lived here all my life.”
“That’s rare, too.”
“My parents have been in the same big Victorian for as long as I can remember. They raised five of us there. Now the bedrooms are mostly empty, but they fill them up with grandchildren as often as possible.”
She glanced at his hand. “You’re not married.”
He shook his head and took another bite of the pastry. A dollop of filling squirted into his mouth. Rich and smooth—like Rory.
He swallowed. “None of the kids are mine. I’m the only holdout.”
“At least you’re an uncle.” Rory’s face softened with longing. She had that tender look in her eyes, the mushy one his sister Jenny got when she was cradling her pregnant belly and thinking about soon being able to hold her newborn.
A look like that, even from a woman he barely knew, would usually have Tucker running for the exit. But Rory was only remotely an option. Attractive, in her own way, but not his type. Despite the expert hands.
“How many nieces and nephews?” she asked.
“Eight and counting.”
“Aw, wonderful. A big family.”
“You must know what that’s like. Mikki used to tell me stories about life at Emma Constable’s. There was a constant stream of foster kids coming and going, she said. Wasn’t Maureen Baxter even one of them?”
“She wasn’t with us for long, but we’ve stayed in touch.” Rory glanced at the commingling singles, the set of her mouth betraying a trace of discomfort. “That’s why I’m here, to help get Baxter House up and running. Not to—” she waved a hand “—unlock the possibilities.”
“I figured as much.” Tucker’s gaze lingered on a Britney clone baring her bikini wax in a pair of low-slung jeans. “You don’t seem like the type.”
Rory blinked. “What type would that be?”
“You know. On the make.”
The brow inched upward again. She was going all high and mighty on him. “But you are, I take it?”
He smiled. “I’m young, male and single.”
“Of course.” She toyed with the locket around her neck, wrapping the delicate chain around the tip of one finger and swinging the suitcase charm back and forth. Her shawl had shifted, revealing the loose neckline of her dress and a hint of the shadowed hollow between her breasts.
Full ones, he realized. Round and weighty, the kind of breasts a guy could roll and grip and squeeze and suck—Damn. Although it wasn’t unusual for him to have sexual thoughts about most any eligible woman he met, these lustful reveries were making him uneasy. Nolan was like a brother, which made Rory a…well, not a sister, but maybe a cousin. Not by blood, of course. Only by association. Still, it’d be less complicated if he didn’t have impure thoughts about her.
Blame the swinging locket. No degree in psychology was necessary to deduce that she was offering him an invite, if only subconsciously.
Insert your key, her amber eyes seemed to say. I’ll take you on an a wild ride you won’t forget.
Tucker put his hand into his pocket, intending to withdraw the key. How could it hurt?
Before he could follow through, a man came up and leaned over Rory’s chair, sliding his hands along her arms. He was big, muscled, bald, sporting a white button-down shirt with a loosened tie and an ostentatious platinum watch that must have weighed a couple of pounds. “Hello, lovely lady. Waiting for me?”
Rory’s face tilted up. After a beat, she smiled provocatively. Tuck couldn’t tell if she knew the guy or not, but he was surprised at her willingness to flirt so openly.
Maybe he should have acted faster.
With an airy laugh, Rory offered the man her locket. “All packed and ready to go, as soon as I find the matching key.”
The man tapped the suitcase charm. “Let’s see what you’ve got in there.”
Rory swiveled on the stool and allowed Big Baldy to try his key on her necklace. It didn’t turn.
“Just my luck,” the guy said.
She dropped the necklace back into her cleavage and rearranged her shawl, crisscrossing it over one of the most magnificent pair of real breasts Tuck had ever hoped to see. “Maybe next time.”
Big Baldy shot an assessing glance at Tucker before he addressed Rory again. “Want to come with me, anyway? I promise…” He lowered his face nearer to hers and whispered into her ear.
She laughed, but with less playfulness. Her eyes went to Tucker. “Thanks, but no thanks.”
Tuck cocked two fingers at the man, flicking them in a shooing gesture. “Okay, fella. You took your shot. Now you’re out of here.”
The guy straightened. “The lady can make up her own mind.”
“And she did.”
There was a moment of challenging silence, then Big Baldy shrugged. “Her loss.” He faded into the crowd, smoothing a hand over his shining scalp as he went.
Tuck waited until the joker was well away before he gripped the edge of the round table and leaned across it toward Rory. “What did he say to you?”
Her lashes lowered. “Oh, just something about making himself fit.”
Tuck saw red. He forced himself to pry his fingers from the table and tear off a hunk of the pastry. After he’d chewed as if the flaky crust had been composed of nail filings, he swallowed and was able to say almost casually, “Do you know him?”
She shook her head. “Not really, though I’m fairly sure he’s been in my bakery a few times.” Her gaze on Tuck’s face was level. Frank. She didn’t seem to be a woman who played games. “It was nice to be asked. My only other option so far was a semifamous actor who was making the rounds earlier. Pint-size—I could have broken him like a twig.”
Tuck was a solid five-eleven, one-eighty-five. Not bulky like the bald man, but he worked out. He would match up with Rory just fine. Maybe his imagination was tricking him, but he was beginning to sense a simmering heat beneath her cool exterior. She was an intriguing female.
Unfortunately, after her remark about how nice it was to be asked, pulling out his key now would look like a pity attempt.
Tuck popped the rest of the cream puff into his mouth. “You have a bakery?” Nolan may have mentioned that, now that he thought of it.
“Several of them, all local. Lavender Field. Bread and sweets. That’s one of my pastries you’re gobbling.”
He swallowed. “Good stuff.”
“Thanks.”
The music stopped. They looked at each other, finding nothing further to say.
Tuck wiped his mouth with a napkin. He scanned the club from the etched-glass mirror behind the bar to the velvet curtains forming the private dining alcoves. Glass doors opened onto a deck with a sparkling view of the harbor. “Looks like Nolan went after Mikki.”
“I saw her heading outside.”
“What happened to your other friend?”
“My sister—Lauren. She’s probably circulating, collecting quotes for a freelance article she’s researching.” Again, the direct gaze. “Did you want to go find her? I saw you looking.”
“That’s okay.” Under the focus of Rory’s unblinking stare, Lauren’s face had faded from his memory.
“She’s very pretty, isn’t she?”
“Yeah, sure.”
“Not as up-front as Mikki, but she’s single and available.” Rory shifted on the bar stool, the hem of her long cotton dress lifting to reveal a smooth firm calf as she recrossed her legs.
“Are you trying to set us up?”
“I can, if you’re interested.”
“Not right now.” Suddenly his mouth was dry and the key was burning a hole in his pocket.
After a momentary silence the music started up again. Should he ask her to dance? The tempo was fast; the dancers were rocking. There was no doubt in his mind that Rory Constable was strictly a slow-dance woman.
“You’re fidgeting,” she said. “It’s all right if you want to leave.” Another hand wave. “Go. Circulate. Search for cute locks.” She gave him a doting smile. “You know you want to.”
“No.” He drained his beer in one long pull. “What I want is a dance. Are you game?”
She pressed a hand to her chest and batted her lashes, putting on, just a bit. “Me?”
“Yes.” He held out his hand. “You. Come on.”
Her hand fit snugly in his and she swung off the stool, giving him a peep down the neckline of her dress to the locket dangling between her breasts. Heat throbbed through him, in beat with the music.
As he led Rory to the dance floor, he had to remind himself one more time that she wasn’t his type. She was Mikki’s sister; he was Mikki’s husband’s best friend. They were destined to be friends who met up now and then at backyard barbecues or family birthday parties. They would drink a beer together and maybe share a moment when they remembered the night that they might have hooked up, if the dice had rolled another way.
Actually hooking up would make future encounters too awkward. He’d been down that road before, with a good friend of Didi’s who to this day shot diamond-cutting laser eyes at him whenever they ran into each other at his sister’s house.
But one dance wouldn’t hurt.
Rory was surprisingly carefree on the dance floor. For all his certainty that she was a slow-dancing type, she moved fluidly to the samba beat of “Hot, Hot, Hot,” the skirt of her black-and-white patterned dress swinging in a bell shape around her long legs as she swooped and twirled.
He finally managed to catch her close, keeping one arm firmly looped around her waist so she couldn’t slip away. He looked into her eyes. Their hips swiveled, side to side, forward and back.
Rory’s cheeks glowed, bathed in the hot colored lights. She licked her lips. “You’re a good dancer.”
“Only when the mood strikes.”
“The mood,” she repeated. Her eyes were liquid, the color of the expensive brand of Scotch he used to see in decanters at Nolan’s house.
He spread his fingers over the small of her back. Her hips moved just beneath them, the swell of her backside inches away. If he’d been even a little bit drunk and she hadn’t been quite so classy, he’d dip lower for a quick grope.
“Then the elusive mood must have struck,” she said, moving her face closer to his so he could hear. “I haven’t danced like this since…I can’t remember when.”
Her hair brushed the side of his cheek. He closed his eyes, inhaled a fragrance of sweet sage and lavender. The weight and warmth of her generous body was more arousing than he’d expected.
He could sink into her.
Go deep, get comfortable.
Spend the night.
Maybe even longer…
He tightened their embrace until her voluptuous breasts were riding plump and full up against his chest, the locked charm trapped between them. In heels, she was almost his height. Maybe twenty-five pounds under his weight, which meant that her curves fit just right against him, filling his arms, his senses.
Their palms slid together in the heat. Rory panted in his ear. He’d stopped hearing the music, but the beat was inside him, and in her, too. He felt it in the heft of her soft breasts and the sensuous sway of her hips and the glide of their feet, perfectly in sync.
He touched his lips to her warm cheek. She turned her head away a fraction and his kiss slipped toward her ear. He lipped her lobe, making the dangly earring swing against his chin. His nose nudged it aside as he sought her neck, sleek and moist and infused with the rising scent of aroused female flesh. He nuzzled, he kissed, he licked.
Rory’s hand tightened against his. “Tucker.” She pressed her face against his shoulder and let out a soulful moan. “Sweet mercy. What are you doing to me?”
2
“FOREPLAY,” Tucker said against her neck. The hot whisper of breath and the vibrations of his voice produced a frisson that played through Rory like fingers running scales along the keys of a piano.
Foreplay. On the dance floor. Was he nuts?
If so, she was equally crazy from the heat. She didn’t want him to stop.
“Foreplay,” she echoed, trying to regain her senses. “Are you asking—or stating your intentions?”
His lips stopped mid-nibble. “Do I need intentions?”
“Everyone has intentions.”
“Not the kind that a father brings up with his daughter’s boyfriend.”
“Oh.” Slowly, she was coming out of the haze of arousal that had freed her inhibitions more thoroughly than a half-dozen body shots. A method she’d tried only once, in college, and promptly thrown up in a frat boy’s lap. “Don’t worry. I wasn’t asking you to marry me.”
Tucker chuckled. He gave her waist a squeeze—a friendly squeeze.
When had his hand moved from her derriere to her waist?
Ignoring the signs, she stayed in his arms, resting her chin on his shoulder and attempting to find the beat of the music that had previously come so natural and easy. But Tucker’s body was stiff against hers, and not in a good way.
He stepped back. “Thanks for the dance.”
Her mouth hung open. That was it?
“I’m sorry about—you know.” He gave a shock of his thick dark brown hair a self-conscious tug, leaving it in ruffled disarray. There was an easy charm about him that was boyishly self-effacing. She imagined that he was the kind of man who got away with murder by flashing his grin at the woman he’d wronged, a grin made only more irresistible by the deep, dimpled grooves it cut into his cheeks. Lost in that charm and smile, a woman would find herself forgiving any transgression.
“Sorry about what?” she said, giving him no easy out. If a guy was going to grope her on the dance floor and then run away, he could at least do her the courtesy of not apologizing.
“Getting carried away.” His feet shuffled. The grin had become sheepish. “I shouldn’t have been so forward.”
She followed him to the edge of the dance floor, grateful to be out of the revolving lights. “Please don’t look at me that way. I’m not your maiden aunt.”
“No, but we’re practically cousins.”
Inhaling, she straightened. “I don’t think so.”
“Maybe not.” Tucker’s gaze went to her breasts. She fumbled around, gathering up the lilac shawl she’d let trail across the dance floor, but in the end she resisted the impulse to cover herself. She was working on her body issues—had even progressed to posing for her Friday afternoon life-drawing class—and she would not allow Tucker Schulz to see how badly he’d rattled her composure. Even if her nipples were so hard they felt like hitchhiker’s thumbs sticking out the front of her dress.
Begging for a pickup, she thought with an inner groan. Pick me up and take me on a long, slow, sensuous journey.
“Nolan and Mikki…” Tucker’s raspy voice trailed off. His gaze was still pinned below her neck and a small thrill went through her when he licked his lips. His eyes were the eerie green underwater color of the turtle tanks at the aquarium, reflecting more than his reluctance. He wanted her, but he didn’t.
“What about Nolan and Mikki?” A lame excuse, in her estimation. He knew it and was using them, anyway, as a convenient out.
Tucker looked away. “I’ll leave that up to her to tell you, but the upshot is that you and I—” He broke off, serving up another helping of the appealing grin-and-shrug. “We’re better off as friends.”
“If that,” she said.
Surprised by her resistance, he caught her hand. “Aw, Rory. Don’t be like that.”
Despite herself, she melted. Not difficult when he’d already reduced her to a liquid state.
She kept her face solemn. “Tell me. Does the boyish charm always work when you’re prying yourself out of a sticky situation?”
He was no longer fooled by her stern tone. “Pretty much.”
She laughed and gave him a push. “Go on. Get out of here.”
He half turned, then threw another dimple shot over his shoulder. “Friends, right? I can tell—we’re destined to be good friends.”
“Sure. That’d be just great.”
Story of my life. Idly she twined the necklace chain around one finger, holding the charm in her palm as Tucker made his getaway. He was immediately snared by a curvaceous redhead in blue spangles who was offering him her locket before they’d gone three steps.
Unlock the possibilities? More like unlock the door of your place or mine.
The white-gold suitcase charm in her palm achingly reminded her that though she may have spruced up her outsides with the help of new designer clothes and a gym membership, inside she was still locked in the same old pattern, lugging the same old baggage.
She sighed. For a brief moment Tucker had seen her as a beautiful, desirous woman, but she’d ruined that with her insistence on keeping his intentions candid and aboveboard. As well as her failure to believe in her own attractiveness.
Almost ten years had gone by since Bradley Carr, her long-term boyfriend from college, had dumped her mere days from the altar, simply because he’d caught sight of some wannabe Bo Derek while taking the trolley. After the wedding had been canceled, the girl and Brad had used his and Rory’s honeymoon tickets to Cozumel. That they’d suffered Montezuma’s revenge and broken up on the plane trip home was Rory’s only small vindication.
Since then she’d resolved innumerable times that she would not let one bad relationship affect the rest of her life. The statute of limitations for feeling sorry for herself was up and over and o-u-t, out.
Rory looked around the club, seeing size twos everywhere.
Affirmation time. I am a confident, successful woman with great skin and va-va-voom curves. I don’t need a man to complete me, but someday I will find one to appreciate me.
Just not at a key party.
AN HOUR LATER the charity event was on its downward slide to that time when those still hanging on to their locks and keys had to either match up or call it a night. Rory had put in her time and was ready to go, but she had Mikki’s car keys and there was no way she’d leave her sister to her own devices, especially when the man who’d broken her heart was on the premises. Tucker’s hints about the couple had roused Rory’s curiosity. So far, Mikki had managed to dodge all questions, slipping off to the bar to order another drink whenever Rory brought up Nolan’s name. Extremely worrisome behavior.
Waiting for Mikki to return, Rory sat alone, gnawing her lip as she watched yet another couple match up. The lucky pair proceeded to the stage where Maureen Baxter handed them a prize and dropped their ticket into the wire bin containing all the entries for the evening.
The impending raffle for the grand prize of a weekend at Painter’s Cove resort in Mendocino was the unofficial wrap-up to the evening. Surely then Rory would be able to leave. Lauren had already disappeared, after being spotted early on with a smoldering Johnny Depp look-alike. Some sisters had all the luck.
A sloppy drunk in a Niners jersey staggered off the dance floor with the bottle of beer that had obviously been his only constant companion for the evening. He waggled his key at Rory.
“Why not?” she said with a sigh, and held out her necklace.
The guy aimed his key at the tiny lock on the suitcase and missed by a mile, thrusting the miniature key into her cleavage instead. He emitted a high-pitched giggle. “Missed my mark.”
“Let me.” She pried the key from his sticky fingers and inserted it into the lock. No go.
She returned the key with a relieved smile. Thanks for small favors.
However, her “possibilities” were rapidly dwindling. She scanned the room again, telling herself that she was looking for Mikki, not Tucker. She’d spotted him frequently in the past hour, seemingly trying his key on every girl who caught his eye.
Had he found his match yet?
Not that she cared. Life was too short to waste on men who ran hot and cold—hot when they were one-on-one and their sap was running, cold when their friends showed up and suddenly they didn’t want to be seen with the “fat girl.”
Lauren would gasp and say, “But you’re not fat!”
Mikki would say, “Screw ’em if they don’t appreciate you.”
Her mother, Emma Constable, would not even understand the issue. Rory had inherited her height and shape from Emma, who carried herself with the grace of a queen and had not a shred of self-consciousness about being zaftig. As mortifying as Rory had found her mother during adolescence—a time already made bad enough by dint of a body that was six inches and thirty pounds bigger than most of the other girls—she’d learned to live with Emma’s openness about all things sexual.
The woman collected male admirers with an ease that was astounding. Even inspiring. Rory’s foster sisters had called it Emma’s mojo. There could be no better proof that sexual attraction wasn’t only about bodies, but brains, as well.
Unfortunately, Rory’s brain still got more action than her body. Even so, she was hopeful. Always hopeful.
But not desperate.
She undid the catch on her necklace and slipped off the damned thing. The prizes didn’t matter to her. What hurt was that she’d let herself believe, for a short while, that she might meet someone who’d not only see the inner her, but be equally enticed by the outer person.
She knew she wasn’t unattractive. There’d been a handful of admirers over the years. But she’d never be a Barbie doll with a twenty-two-inch waist, and that narrowed her options a lot.
Suddenly her pulse leaped. There was Tucker, near the bar. No key partner yet.
He was in a conversation with a man Rory had noticed throughout the evening, moving from woman to woman with his key out. The slavering hound-dog type.
The man gestured. Tucker talked fast, looking right at her for a couple of seconds before deliberately turning away. Her face flushed with heat as they surreptitiously exchanged keys.
“Ready to go?” Mikki plopped onto a stool and put her chin on her hand. Her eyelids lowered sleepily. “What’re you looking at?”
“Nothing,” Rory said. There was no reason for her to believe that Tucker had palmed off his key—the key that he’d avoided fitting into her locket—on the other guy.
No reason except her own self-doubt.
She grabbed the evening bag that matched her boutique version of an ethnic batik dress. “Let’s go.”
“Wait.” Mikki pushed back her tousled hair. “Did you find your key partner yet?”
“Nope, and I’m giving up. I’ll drop the necklace off at the door in case someone else wants to try it.”
“What about the prizes? The movie tickets?”
Rory was an avowed film buff, but not even tickets to a red carpet premiere would entice her to stick around. “I’ve had enough humiliation, thanks, Mikki. I’m leaving. Unless you’d rather get a ride home from Nolan, I suggest you come with me.”
“Nolan. That son of a—” Mikki sputtered peppery insults as she climbed off the stool, looking a bit wobbly. She’d definitely been drinking more than diet cola.
Rory took a firm grip on her sister’s arm. “I’m not letting you get away this time. Are you ready to tell me what happened between you and Nolan?”
“Make that what didn’t happen.” Mikki extricated her heel from the rungs of the stool and pulled herself upright. Her blue eyes sharpened through the haze of alcohol. “Namely, our divorce.”
“What!”
“The rat bastard told me the divorce was never legal. Right before he smiled and stuck his key in my lock.” Mikki was clearly outraged by the encounter. “Then he went and walked out on me before we collected our prize! But never mind.” She patted her purse. “I’ll be much happier at the B and B in Napa without him.”
Rory’s mind was pedaling to catch up to speed. “You and Nolan are still married?”
“Technically.” Mikki let out another colorful oath. “But not for long. I’ll take care of that damn fast, lemme tell ya.”
“Before you rush into anything, it wouldn’t hurt to take some time to think the situation through.” Rory had always believed that despite Mikki’s injured pride, there remained a strong connection between her and Nolan, her first true love. Maybe even her one and only.
But her sister wasn’t in any mood to listen to reason. “Hey, Tuck, old friend!” Mikki waved. “Come say bye-bye.”
He lifted a hand in acknowledgment and headed their way.
Rory rolled her eyes. Super. Maybe now he’d try his key on her, but the joke would be on him because the guy he’d exchanged with hadn’t approached her, either. Tuck’s odds were still the same.
“No match?” Mikki said as she leaned in to kiss Tucker’s cheek.
He gave her back a pat. “I guess it’s not my night.”
A sly smile appeared on Mikki’s face. “Rory’s still unattached.”
Rory put on a cease-and-desist look, but Mikki didn’t stop. Apparently she was getting payback for her big sis refusing to hand over the car keys when she’d wanted to run from Nolan.
“Go ahead and try her,” Mikki cooed. “You two might be a perfect fit.”
Tucker looked at Rory and raised his brows. She nodded grimly. There was no avoiding it.
“Stranger things have happened,” she said through gritted teeth. She lifted the necklace off the table, pinching the chain between two fingers. She held it high, at arm’s length.
Her eyes speared Tucker. “Dare you.”
“I’d be happy to.” With a blameless innocence that was as fake as a nugget of fool’s gold in Rory’s estimation, he caught the dangling charm in his fingers and took the key from his pocket. It slid into the lock and turned with a snick, springing the miniature suitcase open. He pulled out the slip of paper printed with their number—178—and a section to fill out with their contact information for the raffle.
Rory stared at Tucker. He didn’t seem surprised. Nor disappointed. What an actor.
Mikki applauded drunkenly. “I knew you two were a match.” She gestured at her sister’s shawl and the similar hue of his shirt. “You see? Color-coordinated. It must be destiny.”
Rory forced a smile. “Since when do you believe in destiny?” Mikki wouldn’t trust her future to something as flimsy as destiny; she believed in fighting tooth and nail for what was right.
“I don’t.” Mikki’s nose crinkled. “But you do.”
Rory snorted, though she couldn’t argue very strenuously. She’d been raised with Emma’s belief system, which incorporated homespun common sense with the wisdom of the Dalai Lama, the teachings of the Eternal Sunshine Church of Peace, Love and Understanding, the Bible, runes, Tarot cards and even the occasional visit from a Jehovah’s Witness who’d knock on the door at Garrison Street and soon find him or herself with an invitation for supper.
“You two work this out and I’ll go up and get our prize,” offered Tucker.
As soon as he was gone Rory said, “I’m going to kill you,” to her sister.
Mikki had no fear. “How come? Tuck’s a wonderful guy.”
“He didn’t want to try his key on my lock.”
“Could have fooled me.”
“Trust me. I’m not his type.” Or so he wanted to think.
Mikki focused with one eye, her head wavering. “And you know this how?”
“He doesn’t even remember me,” Rory admitted. She dropped the necklace, Tucker’s key still inserted, into her bag. “We met once, when Lauren and I threw that party for you and Nolan after your elopement. Tucker looked right at me tonight without so much as a soupçon of recognition.”
“You’ve changed a lot, Rory. And my marriage happened years ago.” Mikki’s one open eye clouded. “Ancient history. I barely remember those days myself.”
“You are such a liar. You’ve never resolved your feelings for Nolan, but at last you two have a second chance to work out the marriage.”
“Second chances are for wishy-washy women. That’s so not me.”
“You know what Mom would say, don’t you?”
They looked at each other and repeated, “‘The wheel never stops turning. What goes around, comes around.’”
Mikki scoffed. “That and a chorus of ‘Hakuna Matata’ might buy me a cappuccino at Starbucks.”
Although a lot of the crowd had cleared out of Clementine’s, the remaining guests were gathering around the stage where Maureen was about to announce the raffle winners. Rory and Mikki joined the applause as she read off an approximate total of the money they’d raised tonight for the building fund. An impressive amount. The transitional house for troubled girls in crisis, already under construction, was ensured a good foundation.
“We’ve done our duty for Baxter House.” Rory grabbed Mikki’s arm. “Let’s get out of here before Tucker comes back.”
“This is why you don’t have a lover,” Mikki protested as she was towed away. “You back up and turn around at the first bump in the road.”
“As opposed to you, the Pint-Size Steamroller,” Rory said. “We all have our ways.”
Tucker’s voice stopped them. “Where are you going?”
“Home,” Rory said, not stopping.
“The ladies’,” Mikki said, stopping. With a wriggle, she tugged the hem of her mini over her thighs. “You keep an eye on Rory for me.”
Reluctantly, Rory stopped and turned toward Tucker, clasping her shawl and purse against her abdomen. Despite the big fans whirring up near the vaulted ceiling, the club was quite hot. Damp strands of hair clung to her neck and cheeks. Her makeup had probably melted long ago.
“I put our number into the raffle.” Tucker held out two tickets. “And we won a couple of movie passes.”
“Super.” She peeled away one ticket. “We won’t even have to sit together.”
His brows pulled down into a frown and for an instant she was hit with a wallop right beneath her rib cage. Regret…longing. Sharp enough to steal her breath.
Was she so afraid of being rejected that she wouldn’t even take a chance?
“Or we can go as friends,” she amended. Safe territory.
The tightness in Tucker’s jaw relaxed. “That’s better.”
Of course. He was a nice guy, Nolan’s buddy. He didn’t want to hurt her feelings, so he was determined to do the friends thing. She could be a good sport and go along with it, no problem. They could both pretend that he hadn’t snacked on her neck and squeezed her ass under the guise of dancing, then changed his mind when the fog had cleared.
She could also pretend that she didn’t know about his attempt to avoid her with the switched keys.
“Entry to the grand prize raffle is officially closed,” Maureen announced from the stage. She pointed into the crowd. “You, gorgeous. How about coming up here to spin me ’round?”
A blond beach god vaulted up to the stage and gave Maureen a twirl before proceeding over to the barrel holding the numbered tickets. “Oo-oh,” Maureen said into the microphone, fanning her face. “Suddenly I’m so dizzy.”
The bantering continued while the hunk cranked the handle. The mesh drum whirled. Rory craned her neck toward the swagged alcove that opened to the bathrooms. Mikki wouldn’t slip away, would she, out of a misguided attempt to throw Rory and Tucker together?
He’d put his hand between her shoulder blades and nudged her toward the crowd.
“The grand prize tonight is an all-inclusive, three-day weekend at Painter’s Cove in Mendocino. Our lucky couple will stay in one of their luxury suites—”
Several in the crowd tittered. Maureen wagged a finger and put her mouth up against the microphone, dropping her voice to a husky intimate tone. “Sleeping arrangements to be determined by private consultation.” She went on to list amenities such as private pool and spa, plus a number of gratis appointments for massages and facials and a tee time at the golf course. Finally she signaled for a drumroll before reaching into the basket.
To a cheer and the crash of a cymbal, Maureen waved the chosen bright pink ticket overhead. Her chiffon sleeves fluttered. “And our winner is—” she unfolded the paper “—number one hundred seventy-eight!”
Rory was poking through her purse, looking for Mikki’s keys.
Tucker gripped her elbow. “That’s us. One seventy-eight.”
“Oh, no. I’m sure you’re mistaken. We’re one eighty-seven…”
“Tucker Schulz,” Maureen read off the ticket. “And Rory Constable! Woohoo, Rory!” She put a hand over her eyes and searched the crowd. “Is that you, honey? Come on up and get your prize.”
Suddenly, Mikki was pushing Rory toward the stage and Tucker had her hand, helping her up the steps. She felt herself flushing, going awkward and tongue-tied, the way she often did when she was the center of attention. Her desire to be more self-assured was not always matched by the execution.
“Rory is the owner of San Francisco’s own Lavender Field, the chain of bakeries that supplied the desserts that those of you not on low-carb diets have been enjoying tonight.” Maureen’s boisterous laugh rang out. She gave Rory a hug before returning to the mike. “And Tuck is an electrician who’s promised to wire Baxter House free of charge. Let’s give our lucky couple a hand, folks. We couldn’t have selected a more deserving pair.”
Tucker said “Thanks” into the microphone.
Rory plastered a smile on her face, then gave a little wave at Mikki, who was swinging a fist in the air, hooting and hollering.
Maureen took over again and thanked everyone for their support for the cause so dear to her heart.
Gratefully out of the spotlight, Rory faded away to the side of the stage. “I can’t believe we won. And you didn’t even want to—” The words choked off.
Tucker stood directly in front of her, his fingertips resting on her bare arms, burning holes in her concentration. “Didn’t want to…?”
“Be my key partner,” she blurted.
“What makes you say that?”
“I saw you exchange keys with some drunken guy. Before, near the bar.”
An expression that looked a lot like guilt bled into Tucker’s face. “I wasn’t avoiding you, Rory. The guy approached me. I didn’t know him from Adam, but he’d had no luck with his key and he, uh, I guess his eye was on a certain woman…”
“And your key fit her lock? That makes no sense.”
Tucker hesitated. “My original key may not have, but he knew his didn’t. He’d tried his key on her. And everyone else.”
“Except me.” Rory tipped her chin up. The hell if she’d let him see her humiliation at being considered the very least desirable woman in Clementine’s. This was worse than being picked last for dodgeball in gym class, but at least it hadn’t been Tucker who’d avoided her then. Tucker, a man she still found extremely attractive, despite her attempts not to.
She continued blindly. “He persuaded you to take me—my locket, I mean.”
“Didn’t take much persuading.” Tucker’s eyes gleamed. “I was perfectly willing to exchange.”
“Oh.” She blinked, realizing the full implications. Tucker had switched keys knowing that he was likely to be her match.
Out of the goodness of his heart, she reminded herself, should her libido decide to reengage over the gentlemanly gesture. Because they were friends.
He ducked his chin to peer into her eyes. “Okay?” His voice was soft, warm. Kind. Not his fault that her heartbeat ratcheted up several notches every time he looked at her.
“Okay,” she said, giving him a quick nod.
He grinned. “You’re my lucky number. We’ll have a great time in Mendocino.”
Rory held her tongue. She could deal with being his friend if she had to, but doing so while undergoing three days of body-baring sun and fun?
That was asking too much of her.
Or not enough—if he was serious about the hands-off policy.
3
A BLAST OF COLD water hit Tucker’s shins, streaming all over his flip-flops. “Hey!” He stepped out of the spray, removed his wet sandals and shook them off on the plot of grass that was the lawn. “What was that for?”
“I’m waking you up,” said Sam, the hose-wielder and Tuck’s eldest brother. “No one turns down a free weekend in Mendocino.”
It was late Sunday afternoon in the narrow backyard of his parents’ venerable Victorian row house, where the day’s allotment of sunshine was slowly being diffused by an incoming fog. They’d taken the kids beachcombing after church.
Upon the clan’s return home in their fleet of vehicles, the women had immediately gone inside to work on dinner while banishing the men outdoors with orders to hose off the munchkins. Tuck’s nieces and nephews had brought half of the beach with them in their sandy skin, clothes and hair. The other half was on the floor mats of his pickup.
“Free carries a high price when there are too many strings attached,” he said, sorry that he’d brought up the events at the key party. But his siblings had already known that he’d gone and there had been no way Didi would let him get away without offering up a full report.
“What strings?” Sam said. “You’re so stringless you don’t even wear sneakers.”
Tuck lobbed one of the flip-flops at his brother, who caught the sandal with a squidging noise and immediately tossed it to the family dog, Chuckie Doll. The Golden Retriever sank his teeth into the rubber sole and ran off to have himself a good chew, feathered tail wagging.
“Thanks a lot, you bastard.”
Sam was unconcerned. “Punishment for lying.”
“Who’s lying?”
“You know you want to go.”
Tuck raked a hand through his hair, trying to line up his pinball reactions to Rory. He should have called game over, but he kept bouncing around instead, rebounding between reasons for and against seeing her again. “Let’s put it this way. Have you ever known a woman to go away for the weekend and not throw out a few strings?”
“Been known to happen.” Sam got a fond look on his face. For all that he looked like a suburban forty-something dad in khakis with graying hair, in his early twenties Sam had been a bachelor about town. Women had got hot at the sight of him in his fire-fighting gear. A few of the conquests from his past had even accused him of being a player, a point Sam’s wife brought up with glee whenever she was in a snarky mood.
“Not with this woman.” Tuck shook his head. Rory was the marriage-minded type. Although the memory of their dance made his sunburned toes curl into the cool grass, so did the look in her eye when the subject of babies had been brought up. There might come a day when he was ready for that, but not yet.
Sam remained skeptical. “You met her at a key party, for chrissake. I never thought I’d see the day you turned into a hipster.”
“I had to go.” Tuck thanked his lucky stars Sam hadn’t seen him in the silk shirt. “Blame Nolan. He’s sniffing after Mikki again.”
Sam nodded. Nolan had grown up with the Schulzes, almost one of the family. He’d seemed to be at their house more often than his own. They’d all kicked back and enjoyed a few beers this past weekend.
“The boy has it bad,” Sam said. “Which can feel pretty good with the right woman. You’ll find out what I mean when you meet her, same way I did.”
Tuck grinned. “I like it just as well with the wrong woman.”
“Ah, so the mystery lady is that kind.”
“Nope.” Tuck circled a finger in the air. “Do a one-eighty. Think of her more like one of Didi’s best friends than a fast-and-loose club girl.”
Their oldest sister had a network of female friends who were smart, outspoken and determined to have it all. Individually, they were manageable. As a group, they scared the stuffing out of Tucker and his brothers. Especially the single ones. Whenever they came near, he felt the marriage manacles locking around his wrists.
“Yeesh. Rotten luck for you since you’re stuck with her.” Sam squirted the hose at the kids. They ran in circles chasing after his oldest boy, who held a soccer ball out of the younger kid’s reach.
“Rotten luck?” Tucker brushed down his T-shirt and ragged denim shorts. “I wouldn’t say that, either.”
Sam’s knowing laugh rumbled beneath the shrieks of the children. After all, he’d married one of Didi’s friends. “Tell me about this chick. Whatever she’s got, you obviously want.”
“Nah. All she’s got is our room reservation for Painter’s Cove.”
“What’s her name?” Gabe chimed in, walking over from where he’d been playing with his toddler in a bouncy swing. He was the second brother, an ex-minor leaguer turned college baseball coach, father of two, married to a Southern redhead named Lula.
Tuck opened then closed his mouth. “Not telling. You’ll spill the beans to your wife and next thing I know, the whole crew of them will be slow-cooking me into a relationship.”
“True.” Gabe laughed from the perch he’d taken on top of their parents’ ancient cedar picnic table. “Lula has her ways of getting me to talk.”
“So does Karen,” Sam said. “But her ways involve a meat fork planted in my skull.”
Tuck chuckled. The banter was a familiar refrain. In reality, he saw how devoted his brothers were to their families, day in, day out. And he admired that—from a distance. “You’re encouraging me to settle down because…?”
“My wife makes me,” Sam said.
They laughed.
“What’s the big deal, anyway?” Gabe asked. “Take the vacation. You don’t have to marry the girl because you’ve shared a room.”
“Right,” Tucker said, unconvinced.
Logically he should have had no hesitation since Rory wasn’t his type. Okay, so she was a little less not his type than he’d first thought, but still…
“I’ll be sure she understands we’re going as friends,” he told his brothers.
Sam’s forehead wrinkled. “Yeah, that’ll work.”
“Do I detect a note of skepticism?”
“Proceed with a healthy caution, my pal. Watch your step around her and you’ll be fine.”
“It’s his hands he’s got to watch,” Gabe put in.
Sam grinned. “Tuck was always good with his hands.”
“On the job. Strictly on the job,” Tucker protested, knowing it was no use even though he had calluses on his fingertips from wrapping wire, not squeezing female behinds.
“Yeah, sure.” Gabe looked at Sam. “Remember the time we caught him with his hands up Mary-Anne Shanahan’s shirt on the living room couch? He looked like he was calibrating the engine of a Maserati.”
“And when we threw on the lights—”
“He jumped up—”
“With a boner capable of parting the Red Sea.”
“And he said—”
“‘I was only measuring her for a T-shirt.’”
“And Mary-Anne said…”
Sam and Gabe synchronized for the big finish, “‘They’re 34C.’”
“Shut it,” Tuck commanded through their booming laughter, even though he had no real hope of quelling them. As the youngest of five, he’d been the subject of their merciless teasing all his life. He’d learned to roll with it by keeping a sense of humor and always being alert for revenge opportunities. Like the surprise male strip-o-gram he’d arranged for Gabe and Lula’s honeymoon.
Didi came into the backyard, banging the screen door behind her. “Quit torturing my baby brother,” she said, and began issuing orders like a drill sergeant. Sam’s trigger finger twitched on the hose nozzle, but one narrow look from Didi and he ambled off, compliantly reeling up the hose.
Gabe was dispatched to round up the hooligans. “Fried chicken,” he yelled across the yard. “First one at the dining table gets a drumstick.”
Tuck took cover from the rush, ducking to sit at the picnic table.
Didi plopped beside him. “How many brothers does it take to screw in a lightbulb?”
“More than three?” he guessed.
“Nope. No one knows how many, because they’re too busy screwing with each other’s heads.”
Tuck moaned. “Like you don’t want to do the same.”
“Of course I don’t.” Didi draped an arm around his shoulders. “I’m only interested in your future happiness.”
“I’m doing just fine in the present, thanks.” And he was. He’d dropped out of college with the idea that he’d try pro surfing, but had wound up making a living in the construction trade instead. After going through a period of feeling his oats and drifting from job to job, he’d been working steadily as a licensed electrician for seven years now. Recently he’d bought into the four-plex with Didi and Sam, even agreeing to serve as the on-site landlord and handyman. How much more settling did she want out of him?
As if he had to ask.
“You’re doing it again.” He made a motion to grab her by the head.
She jerked away and dusted mussed hair off her face. “What? I haven’t even begun.” The last time they’d had this conversation she’d conceded that her bossiness was annoying and had promised that all he had to do was to put her into one of the Schulz brothers’ dreaded headlocks to remind her to shut the hell up.
“I saw the look in your eye,” he said. “You were going to mention Charla again.”
“I’m looking at the Andersons’ yard. Their phlox is blooming.” Didi could never pull off the innocent act. She was too sharp to play dumb.
“And I think your nose is growing.” The boys had always teased her that, unlike Pinocchio, her nose didn’t grow with a lie, but only when she was about to stick it up in somebody’s business.
She touched it. Snub, with freckles, the only feature about her that wasn’t strong, square or firm. “All right. I won’t tell you what you should do. But in my version of your life—”
He coughed a “Bossy wench” under his breath.
She went on, always good at talking over resistance. “You should still be dating Charla, not a barfly from Clementine’s. You’ll never find anyone good at one of those clubs.”
“Ah, but you didn’t get to see the miniskirts and butt cleavage tattoos.”
“I didn’t say good-looking. I said good. You need a good woman, Tuck. Like Charla.” Charla was one of Didi’s girlfriends, a high-powered executive who’d finally broken the snooze alarm on her biological clock. She was on a five-year plan to gain a husband and child.
“Look, Deeds. When we went out, Charla made it clear that a mere electrician wasn’t good enough for her. She wanted me to become a contractor and builder, then a developer—the kind with an expensive office suite and a hard hat for show only. I don’t want to date a woman who has ambitions for me.”
“I know Charla can be pushy, but I thought you two might be a good match. She needs a little lightheartedness and you need the discipline.”
“Are we talking S and M here?”
“Quit kidding around, Tuck.” Didi frowned. “What’s wrong with a little ambition?”
Tucker couldn’t think up a flip response. “Nothing. When I’m ready for it, I’ll get my own.”
“Lazy boy,” she chided. “You always did get away with murder, skipping chores to go surfing and the like. Comes with being the youngest, I suppose.”
He raised his brows. “Or a bad reaction to always being told what to do my brothers and sisters.”
She smiled. “You have a point. If I tell Charla to knock off the pressure, would you consider—”
“Sorry. The chemistry wasn’t there.”
“How can you be sure? Chemistry doesn’t always combust at first sight.”
“No.” Tucker thought of meeting Rory. He’d looked right past her. Big mistake, though he’d corrected it before too long. “But I dated Charla twice and have run into her a dozen times over the past months because she’s always at your house when I come by—”
He broke off to shoot a glare at his sister, who didn’t have the grace to look guilty. Didi didn’t do guilt. Not on herself, anyway. “I won’t be asking her out again, Deeds. Not ever. So give it up or prepare to be head-locked.”
“All right. I know when I’m beat.” She sighed. “Tell me about this Miss Clementine who’s got her claws in you. French-manicured claws, I’ll bet. And she wears Manolos and carries a supply of handy condoms in her itty-bitty purse.”
He laughed. “You’re getting prudish in your old age.”
Didi looked horrified at the suggestion. “Then please tell me I’m wrong.”
“You’re wrong. She’s not what you think.”
“Yeah, she has depth.” Didi rolled her eyes.
“Do you remember the first time Max picked you up? He drove up on a motorcycle, tattoos on both arms, his hair in a ponytail and a sneer beneath his Fu Manchu. Not the optimal date for a seventeen-year-old, but Mom and Dad let you do your own thing.”
“They did not! They banned me from seeing him again. I had to sneak out the window until I turned eighteen.”
“Okay, but you get my point. Look at Max now.” A balding orthodontist whose kids colored in his tattoos with Magic Markers, he and Didi had been married for almost twenty years. Their eldest son would be entering college this coming fall.
Didi glowered. “I hate when you make a rational argument against me.”
“See how I’ve matured,” Tucker teased, though he hoped she’d recognize the truth in his words. While it was true that he’d coasted through life up to now, he wasn’t averse to a change in speed—or even direction. He’d always figured that one day he’d come across a woman worth stopping for, and then he’d know what all the hoopla over love was about.
Their mother cranked open the kitchen window and yelled for them to get their butts inside before dinner got cold. Just like old times, when they’d all lived at home and been the scourge of the neighborhood.
“You could have simply told me to leave you alone,” Didi said as they walked to the back door.
Tuck gave the top of her head an affectionate kiss. “Has that ever worked?”
“No better than a headlock,” she said sassily, sliding out from under his arm when he tried to tighten his grip. She hurtled herself inside, banging the screen door shut on Tucker’s nose.
THE SCENT of smoked jasmine lingered in the air at Emma Constable’s house hours after the brunch was over. Surrounded by a pile of pillows and cushions in the bay-window seat, Rory was so at ease she hadn’t moved for more than an hour. She’d even drifted off for a while after the talking had ended and Lauren and Mikki had gone home. Now Emma had come in from the garden and was gliding back and forth in the kitchen, rattling ice trays and running water, humming “Light My Fire” to herself.
Rory gave a long stretch and yawn. Herbal tea, fresh bread, incense—those were the smells of her mother’s house. And often her own.
Like mother, like daughter? The similarities were both comforting and aggravating. If only she’d been able to consciously choose which traits she’d inherit.
“Sangria, hon?” Emma asked, drifting in from the kitchen with a tall glass filled with ice cubes and a pale pink liquid. She’d changed from the sparkly caftan she’d worn earlier into a T-shirt and a pair of faded jeans. Her feet were bare, the nails painted bright red. “I can make sandwiches—bean sprouts and hummus.”
“No thanks.” Rory straightened the pillows, using one to smother a second yawn. “I should probably be going. What time is it?”
“Five-ish.”
“Whew. I had a longer nap than I thought.”
Emma’s eyes narrowed. “Are you feeling all right? Take some of my ginseng. It’ll put zip in your step.”
“I’m fine. Been catching up on sleep from the other night at Clementine’s. I was up early the past two mornings—”
“You work too hard.”
“It wasn’t work.” Just restlessness. Rory found it tough to break the habit of waking before dawn to bake her daily bread, as she’d done for years while getting her first stores launched. Now that she had store managers and most of the baking was done in an industrial kitchen outside of the city, she left the early morning hours to others. Yet the early-to-bed habit remained.
Yawning at 9:00 p.m. tended to cut into her appeal as a swinging single.
“Then what, hon? You were reticent at brunch.” Emma set her drink on a side table.
“What do you mean? We talked for hours.”
“Hashing out Lauren’s flash-dating intrigues and Mikki’s Nolan Baylor complication.” With a soulful moan—Emma did everything with soul—she sank into an artisan-made rocking chair, flung one leg over the arm, wiggled her butt into the cushion, then pushed off with the ball of her foot. “You said nothing about yourself. If Lauren hadn’t mentioned that you’d won the grand prize…”
Rory shrugged.
Her mother’s brow furrowed as she took up a bundle of hand-carded wool. The click of knitting needles made a counterpoint to the rhythmic creak of the old rocking chair. Rory felt along the floor for the shoes she’d kicked off, but she was in no rush to leave. The familiar smells and sounds of her mother’s house were soothing to the battered soul. She, Mikki and Lauren certainly didn’t return for the bitter tea.
“The house is so quiet,” Rory said.
“Arun is working.” Emma’s remaining boarder, a foster child who’d come of age, was looking for an apartment of his own. “And Ernie spends most of his time in his room, meditating.” Ernesto Modesta, a compatriot from Emma’s commune days, had arrived at her door the past month, asking for a bed. He was supposed to move on anyday now. No one was holding their breath. “But you’re avoiding the subject, m’dear.”
“Only because I have nothing to tell.”
Emma smiled. “Do you think I’ve lost my touch?” She tapped one of the needles to her nearly unlined forehead. “I may need bifocals now, but my third eye sees as well as ever, Aurora. The less you say, the more I’m sure there’s something big going on in your head. Why don’t you talk it out? You always kept your worries too much to yourself.”
“Some of us don’t feel the need to announce our every body twinge and passing thought to the general public.”
Emma was unperturbed. “Bottling up your emotions isn’t healthy. When was the last time you had a colonic?”
Gawd! Rory flung herself back against the pillows. She gazed up at the sitting room’s antique tin ceiling, original to the house, and counted to ten. “I am fine, Mom. Both physically and emotionally. Quit looking for trouble.”
Her mother shrugged. Creak, creak. Click, clack.
Blessed peace. Rory was almost lulled.
Emma speared a loop of yarn. “No decision yet on the baby question?”
Oh, damn. That. Baby-making had not been on Rory’s mind the past few days, except in a recreational capacity. “I only said I was considering having a baby. You know, mulling it over. I’m not anywhere close to a decision.”
“My friends Deena and Azure went to a sperm bank.”
Rory made a face. “Jerry Garcia being no longer available.”
“Jerry was always a generous man,” Emma said fondly before returning to Rory’s dilemma. “All I’m saying is, keep your options open.”
“I’m not so hard up that I can’t find a donor on my own.” Though Rory had her doubts. Her baby daydreams had gone as far as wondering who would be the father, but hadn’t gotten much beyond that even though there were several good male friends she could ask. Too large a part of her still wanted to go the traditional marriage route.
Which was odd, given her upbringing. Her father, one of Emma’s many lovers, had drifted into Rory’s life at infrequent intervals, acting more like a friendly, but distant, uncle than a dad. Larger-than-life Emma had filled in for the lack with supreme confidence. She’d been everything—father, mother, disciplinarian, instigator, best friend.
Rory worried a ragged cuticle. On second thought, perhaps her inclination to experience the one type of family life Emma couldn’t provide was not so odd. She had immense respect for her mother, but not everyone could live up to her example.
“A grandchild would be nice.” Emma rocked, placid and obdurate. Every child who arrived at Garrison Street soon learned that for all of Emma’s go-with-the-flow philosophies, she was also the original immovable object. “You don’t need to approach this like a business decision, sweetie. A baby is Mother Nature at her finest. Plant a seed, it will sprout. The practical details will work out.”
Rory squirmed. She’d change the subject, but the only other one that sprang to mind was sex. Her sisters were comfortable discussing the details of their sex lives with Emma. Rory less so. “I can’t believe you’re trying to talk me into having a baby on my own. Whatever happened to family values?”
“Don’t try to distract me with political posturing. I wouldn’t be going along with the idea if I wasn’t sure it’s something you truly want.” Emma rearranged her tangled skein of yarn. “Lauren and Mikki and I will always be here to help. It takes a village…”
“I know, but that’s not the point.”
“Don’t tell me you want a husband first.”
Rory pressed her knuckles against her smile. “I know it’s a radical idea, but you raised me to be an independent thinker.”
Her mother sniffed. “I have nothing against the concept of life mates.”
“And marriage vows…?”
Brows raised, Emma peered at Rory over the rim of her reading glasses. “If you must.”
“Don’t worry. I have no prospects at the moment, for either a husband or a father.”
“What about the young man you’re going to Mendocino with?”
“I haven’t decided about that.”
“Hmm. I’ve forgotten his name.”
“I didn’t tell you.”
“One of the girls must have mentioned him during brunch.”
There was no hiding. “Tucker Schulz.” Rory’s stomach flipped over. “Don’t get any ideas. His only potential is as a friend.”
Emma’s all-knowing gaze was on Rory’s face; she felt it heating up. “Mikki knows him?”
“He’s Nolan’s best friend.”
“Interesting.”
“No, it’s not. Not for my part.” But her mother had always been able to read her like a book and it was clear she could see past Rory’s avowals even when she continued to deny her interest.
After a moment the knitting needles resumed clicking. “There’s nothing wrong with going as friends.”
Nothing right about it, either, Rory thought. She’d be asking for trouble. So far, Mikki was still talking about researching divorce laws and filing new papers to end her marriage, but they’d been close for too long. Rory knew how much feeling her sister had buried under the hard-hearted act.
Which meant Tucker was right. If they had a weekend fling, and then Nolan and Mikki ended up together after all, they’d be forced to see each other over and over, in the most awkward of social circumstances. Some women were able to keep ex-lovers as friends—namely her mother. Rory doubted she could be as equable. For years after Brad had dumped her, she’d avoided his neighborhood and their mutual friends. When he’d moved away, her relief had been enormous.
But this was Tucker, not Brad. Was she so afraid of the possible consequences that she’d give up the grand prize trip? There was caution, and then there was stupidity.
Rory couldn’t remember the last time a man had taken her to such a high level of attraction so quickly. Judging by Tucker’s actions—and reactions—he shared at least some of her fascination.
Any future awkwardness might be worth it, she told herself. Their explosive chemistry indicated a risk worth taking.
4
ALMOST TWO WEEKS LATER Rory was called to the phone at her Chestnut Street bakery in the Marina, where she spent most of her time. There were rare days when she could sit back and let her store managers do the work while she congratulated herself on the efficiency of her operation. Then there were times when seemingly a million small problems cropped up and she was at the center of most of them.
This was one of those days. She’d been on the phone or on her feet all day.
“Take a message,” she said to the employee who held the kitchen phone in one hand and a big spoon covered with slime in the other.
“I tried, but she said it’s Maureen Baxter.”
Rory inched out from below the mammoth industrial sink. “This is hopelessly clogged. We have to call a plumber. Katya, can you take care of that?” The drain had spewed smelly sludge when she’d managed to get the pipe open. Her first and favorite unclogging method of jabbing a wooden spoon into the works hadn’t worked.
“I’m on it.” Katya, the store manager, tossed the spoon into the trash, then handed Rory a white towel.
She wiped her hands before taking the phone. “Yes, Maureen?”
“Rory, my darling Clementine. I simply had to call to say thank you one more time for your generosity. I just returned from the Baxter House location and the work they’ve accomplished in the time since our fundraiser is incredible.”
“I’m glad to hear it, but you really must stop thanking me, Mo. I was happy to help in my small way.” Not only had Rory donated the bread and bakeries for the event at Clementine’s, but she’d been so inspired by Maureen that she’d mailed off a large check this past week.
“You should stop by the site. It’s quite something. Apparently we were mentioned in the blog of some obscure online magazine, and now the volunteers are crawling out of the woodwork. Everyone from Barry Bonds to the mayor has lent a hand, and you know what a coup it is to get Barry.”
“Wonderful. I guess the blog wasn’t that obscure after all.” Although she was secretly pleased to hear that Lauren’s Inside Out blog had such a faithful following, Rory was only half listening. Despite the exhaust fan, the air in the kitchen was ripe with the stink from the burping sink. She pointed and flapped the towel, motioning for Katya to prop open the back door.
“My current task is to see that the construction proceeds without delay,” said Maureen.
“Good luck.” From what Rory had experienced with the ongoing renovation of her newest store, construction never proceeded without delay.
“I’ve been rounding up daily lunchtime donations from local restaurants,” Maureen went on. “We can’t have our volunteers going hungry.”
Aha. “I’d be happy to help,” Rory said before Maureen had to ask. “My Castro store is closest to your site. I’ll give the manager a call to see what we can set up.”
“Thanks scads, Rory. If I get fixings from one of the area delicatessens and bread from you, Baxter House will have the happiest workers on record. Especially if you throw in some of those luscious fruit tarts of yours. The spares will do.”
There were no spares. “Absolutely. Count me in. I’ll be in touch—”
“Wait!”
Rory stifled a sigh. Naturally she couldn’t get away that easily.
“Yes? Is there something else I can help you with, Maureen?” She held the phone between her shoulder and ear while she scrubbed her hands with the disinfectant wipes Katya had passed along.
“I’m also following up on a few leftover details from the party.” The timbre of Maureen’s voice lost its usual brisk confidence, signaling that she was about to approach a personal area where the outcome was less assured. “I noticed that you haven’t arranged a date for your Painter’s Cove weekend. Is there a problem with the trip?”
“No, of course not.” Rory slowly dried her hands, trying to think up an excuse. “It’s a fabulous prize.”
Silence on Maureen’s end, except for a rapid tapping sound.
Rory imagined her friend’s arched brows and puckered lips, her tapping fingernails. Maureen would delve as deep as necessary, which meant that if Rory gave her no satisfaction she’d call Tucker next. The woman had boundary issues.
“Is the problem your key partner?”
“Um…”
“Because I ran into Tucker Schulz at the construction site and aside from looking like quite the dish—” Maureen broke off to make a low humming noise of appreciation. “Oh, sorry. Well-hung tool belts distract me. As I was saying—”
Rory interrupted, not wanting Maureen to say whatever she might say, which with Maureen would likely be something terribly pushy, such as that she’d taken charge and arranged Rory’s weekend for her. “There’s no problem, Mo. Really. I’ve been busy, that’s all.”
“Yes, that’s what Tucker claimed.”
Oh, yeah? Rory clamped her lower lip between her teeth. She’d made one attempt to reach Tucker and had left a message on his machine.
He hadn’t returned the call.
So rude. Since then Rory’s stubbornness had kicked in and she was determined to wait for him to make the next move. That he’d be willing to dump an expensive prize to avoid her was not humiliating, not at all.
She’d admit to galling.
“Is there a time limit to use the weekend?” she asked, ready to keep Tucker in a holding pattern for months if she had to. Maybe by then her attraction to him would have fizzled out.
Maureen paused. “I believe you have a year.”
“An entire year! Then why is everyone on my case about scheduling this trip immediately?”
“Everyone?” Rory could hear the smile in Maureen’s voice. “I may be an important personage, but I hardly qualify as everyone.”
“Uh-huh. Everyone, as in my interfering sisters. Was it Mikki or Lauren who set you up to call me on this?”
Maureen laughed, but she didn’t answer.
“Mikki, I’ll bet.” Lauren was less pushy, whereas Mikki had been riding Rory’s back like a howler monkey, going on about what a great guy Tucker was and how his connection to Nolan didn’t have to put the brakes on his and Rory’s relationship.
Sure, Rory thought. It didn’t have to. But she’d had enough experience with these things to know that it inevitably did. She might tell herself that she was willing to overlook the potential problems in favor of a shot at great sex, even the short-term version, but reality was another matter. Men got weird about mixing their social and private lives.
Конец ознакомительного фрагмента.
Текст предоставлен ООО «ЛитРес».
Прочитайте эту книгу целиком, купив полную легальную версию (https://www.litres.ru/carrie-alexander/slow-ride/) на ЛитРес.
Безопасно оплатить книгу можно банковской картой Visa, MasterCard, Maestro, со счета мобильного телефона, с платежного терминала, в салоне МТС или Связной, через PayPal, WebMoney, Яндекс.Деньги, QIWI Кошелек, бонусными картами или другим удобным Вам способом.