A Little Night Matchmaking. Debrah Morris
right, you did.” Brandy sat up and smacked her forehead in mock wonder. “I don’t know why I didn’t heed your unsolicited, but clearly valuable advice. I could have squeezed in a complete engine diagnostic on one of my many leisurely breaks this afternoon! My mistake!”
“Hey, you don’t have to get huffy.”
“Huffy does not begin to describe how I am about to get.” If she wasn’t careful, she might even cry. It was past Chloe’s bedtime. She was tired. She’d had a trying day. Tomorrow, she’d have to get up and jump through the hoops again. Figure out how to get the stupid car fixed. Pay the bills. Be a good mom. Do a good job. She might be used to carrying her own load, but life would be a lot easier if she could share the burden.
“How will we get home, Mommy?”
“I don’t know yet.” If they camped out in her office, she wouldn’t be late for work in the morning. That should make Mr. Futterman happy.
Trick Templeton squatted down beside the open window. “Want me to take a look? I’m pretty good with my hands.”
“I’ll bet you are,” she muttered. She didn’t dare linger on that thought.
“Look lady, do you want me to look under your hood or not?”
“Sure. Why not? Knock yourself out, cowboy.” She reached down and popped the release lever. Trick walked around to the front of the car, raised the hood and ducked under it.
“Trick will fix the battery, Mommy.” Where did Chloe get her optimism? Better yet, where did she get her mechanical knowledge?
“I hope so.” Brandy let her head drop back against the headrest and closed her eyes. For the first time in her life, she hoped the man poking around under her hood not only had good hands, but fast ones.
Chapter Three
Trick retrieved his toolbox from the truck. Aiming a flashlight into the car’s greasy innards, he immediately discovered the problem. After making a few quick adjustments, he leaned around the car’s raised hood. “Try it again!”
She turned the key in the ignition, and the ancient engine hiccuped to life. Some engines purred like contented kittens; this one chugged like a rusty lawnmower. That had been left out in the rain. Trick lowered the hood and walked around to the driver’s side window, pulling his handkerchief from his back pocket to wipe his hands. Seeing the ketchup stain sent a riveting surge of emotion spiraling through him. He’d experienced a similar reaction when he’d touched Brandy’s cheek. Twice.
He had no idea where the unnerving sensations came from or what they meant in the grand scheme of things. Sorting out emotions was complicated. Owning up to them was messier than the gunk on his handkerchief. Time-consuming. Denying emotions was easy for a man who preferred to keep life neat and simple.
“That should do it.” He stood by the car. An elusive scent made him draw in a deep breath. Cinnamon. Reminded him of something, but before he could figure out what, he noted Brandy’s relieved sigh. Complacency was dangerous, so he added, “For the moment.”
“Mind if I ask what kind of voodoo magic brought my zombie car back to life?” She gazed up at him, her face pale in the street lamp’s hazy glow. He’d seen her in broad daylight and knew the pallor was artificial. Her smooth skin was warm and golden. Now that she was off the defensive, she was neither coy nor seductive. Her delicate features were arresting in their openness.
A man would always know where he stood with her.
He shrugged off the uncomfortable thought. Didn’t even feel like one of his. “No magic required. The battery cables were loose on the terminals. Easily fixed. All I had to do was tighten them.”
She smiled, and he noticed the indentation of a tiny dimple at the left corner of her mouth. Long strands of hair had slipped from an elaborate braid and fluttered in the evening breeze like shiny coffee-colored ribbons. Unlike other pretty women, she seemed unaware of her wholesome appeal. Her name suited her. Like the liqueur, her intrinsic sweetness carried a surprising kick. A man with a weakness for her type would find Brandy Mitchum’s cheeky charm downright intoxicating.
“The cables were loose?” Her dark brows fretted together. “How could that happen?”
“I don’t know,” he admitted. “All kinds of things go wrong with old cars.”
In the back seat, the little girl clapped a hand over her mouth and giggled.
“Maybe bouncing over those washboard roads today disconnected them,” suggested Brandy.
“Maybe.” Her theory was as good as any. “An old car is a disaster waiting to happen. You should have gotten—”
“I know. The engine tuned.” She held up a hand tipped with bare nails that had probably never had a professional manicure and ticked off the obvious. “The timing adjusted. The brake pads replaced. The leak in the air conditioner line repaired. A new muffler. And oh, how about some new tires while we’re dreaming?”
“That would get you started,” he conceded, “if you don’t mind pouring money down a rat hole.”
“I’m well aware of my vehicular shortcomings. Unfortunately I’ve been a little checkbook-challenged since the move.”
“You’re new to Odessa?”
“We’ve been here a little over a month.”
“We?” Without thinking, he checked the hand resting on the steering wheel. No wedding ring.
If she noticed, she didn’t let on. “Chloe and I. I’m divorced.”
“Ah.” Why was he glad to hear that? Her marital status was irrelevant. Despite the physical reaction that had gut-punched him when he touched her, Brandy Mitchum was not the kind of woman he got involved with. He knew females, and experience told him this one would expect a lot from a man. Like commitment. She should have a big ornate C tattooed on her forehead to warn guys who didn’t possess reliable radar.
Her lack of flirtation is intriguing. Maybe, but only a fool would rise to that challenge. She’ll demand fidelity and promises. Exactly. He didn’t make promises he couldn’t keep. His word was his bond. That’s how he’d gotten where he was. At thirty-seven, he’d maintained his bachelor status by not getting involved with women who wanted more than he was willing to offer.
Which is damned little these days.
Yeah, but who’s keeping score?
Brandy was a mother. Heavily invested in family values. Divorced and unwilling to accept less than her due. No doubt on the prowl for a replacement man. If she hadn’t already staked her claim on a neat little house on a quiet little street with lots of pretty little flowers in the yard and a fluffy puppy for the kid, then she was prospecting for one. He’d met—and run from—women like her before. They needed too much. Loose battery cables today, drippy faucets tomorrow. They were highly skilled at sucking a man into the black hole of domesticity.
The take-over started innocently enough. A little project here. Another there. Hang a curtain rod. Rewire a lamp. Then boom. Before God could get the news, a guy was mucking out gutters and cooking burgers on a backyard grill. His time was no longer his own, and all furloughs from the picket fence prison were carefully monitored by the cookie-baking warden. He shuddered at the thought of being locked in for life with no chance of parole.
No way and no thank you. His risk-taking, nomadic lifestyle didn’t mix with family duty. All his time and all his energy was devoted to his demanding job. Job? Who was he kidding? Controlling oil well fires was more of a calling. There were easier ways to make a living. Safer ways, too.
He’d ducked the big C by avoiding complicated relationships and choosing women with no apron strings or expectations. Women whose desires were easily satisfied in the bedroom. His plan had worked so far, so why change a