Have Bouquet, Need Boyfriend. Rita Herron
his teenage years had been. “Being a single mom is tough. I admire women who raise children alone these days.”
“Yeah, I miss my mom. She died when I was young,” Rebecca admitted.
Thomas placed a hand on her shoulder. “I’m sorry, Rebecca. I lost my mom a while back, but she was alive when I was little.”
A few moments of companionable silence stretched taut between them. Then she hit another bump and her purse flew from the seat to the floor. The tampon rolled out. She blushed, then reached for it.
He grimaced. Good grief, he was an OB-GYN.
The car swerved sideways, and he yanked up the purse, stuffed the tampon inside and closed it for her. Her lips snapped shut.
Then she hit another bump in the road, and the chest in the back bounced up and slammed down with a thump. He angled his head to see it. “What’s in that box, anyway?”
Rebecca’s gaze darted everywhere but at him. “Just some junk for a garage sale.”
He lapsed into silence as he remembered the dozens of garage sales his mother had had. She’d sold everything she could stand to part with just to provide for them. He’d hated seeing their things being hocked to strangers for mere pocket change.
Surely Rebecca wasn’t that desperate for money.
If she was, she’d have a hell of a time paying her insurance if the company raised it after they covered the damages to his car.
But her finances were not his problem, he reminded himself, battling a twinge of sympathy. He was not playing Mr. Nice Guy again. He would befriend Rebecca so she could introduce him to her father, then he’d secure the job and move to Atlanta.
Nothing more.
A HALF HOUR LATER Rebecca’s insides still quivered. What had happened to her today? Not only had she ruined Thomas’s Porsche, but she’d damn near run off the road and killed him. Then she’d lied to him about the silly hope chest.
But she didn’t want him to think she was husband hunting, that she would mistake his kindness for an advance. Because Thomas Emerson was the nicest man she’d ever met. And the sexiest. And someone was going to be the luckiest woman alive one day to have him for a husband.
Of course, that someone would not be her.
Memories of at least three painful past relationships traipsed through her mind, trampling her mood altogether. Memories of men who had used her to get to Suzanne.
No, Thomas wasn’t like those men. He was trustworthy and sincere and helped women through his work. He would never use a woman. Although, she had overheard him asking Hannah about Suzanne when she’d gone for punch.
She veered onto the interstate toward his house, grateful for the soft jazz music filling the tense silence. Once she dropped him at his house, she wouldn’t have to face him again. She could handle the insurance information over the phone and never have to look into those startling green eyes again. As long as she didn’t see him, she could put him firmly out of her mind.
Then she wouldn’t have to drool over him and want the man so badly.
After all, she was a realist. She refused to torture herself and dream about things she could never have.
Like Thomas Emerson.
Chapter Three
Thomas shook his head as Rebecca drove away. She was an enigma. He’d finally grown tired of the strained silence in the car and had ventured into asking her about a book he’d ordered that hadn’t yet arrived.
She had transformed into an intelligent, well-spoken woman.
The past half hour they’d enjoyed a long discussion of various popular titles as well as nonfiction topics. Rebecca was well-read and insightful, and had even argued with him about the authors of some hard-to-find classics. But when he’d suggested they stop by her place so he could help her unload that chest full of garage sale items, she’d grown flustered again. She’d claimed her neighbor, Jerry Ruthers, would assist her instead.
Was this guy Jerry her boyfriend? Was he the reason she’d rushed to get home and had refused Thomas’s offer of coffee?
An odd feeling pinched his gut. Maybe it was from the chocolate groom’s cake he’d eaten at Alison’s wedding. No, probably from the jostling his body had been subjected to on the harrowing ride home.
He walked inside his house, smiling at the expanse of polished hardwood and detailed molding. As a child, he’d never imagined owning a house like this, one with space and class. He tossed his keys onto the marble table in the foyer and stopped in the den, his gaze riveted to the Palladian glass window overlooking his backyard. A cluster of oaks so ancient the branches swayed with age provided shade while a fish pond added more visual interest.
Pride swelled in his chest at his accomplishments.
Still, material things weren’t enough. His thirst for knowledge couldn’t be quenched. He’d vowed to learn everything he could about high-risk deliveries. A child’s life might depend on his skill and expertise.
The key to reaching his goals lay in that job in Atlanta.
Now he just had to devise a plan to see Rebecca again and swing an invitation to her grandmother’s surprise birthday party so he could meet Bert Hartwell.
REBECCA HURRIEDLY PLACED the bride’s book and a book on dream analysis back into the chest and shut it, not wanting any of her neighbors to see the contents of her hope chest. Ignoring the growing chill in the air, she tugged and pulled at the hope chest, trying desperately to remove it from the back of the station wagon, but the bumps she’d taken had wedged the corner of the chest into the side by the spare tire, and it was completely stuck. The effort made her already sore chest ache even more. She felt a sharp pain in it each time she took a deep breath, too. She must have bruised her ribs. They couldn’t be broken or she would be in much worse pain. Right?
She shoved again, and mashed her finger. Why hadn’t she had the courage to accept Thomas’s offer of help?
She couldn’t ask him to assist her when she’d already inconvenienced him. No telling how long it would take to repair his car. Granted he could borrow something from Uncle Wiley’s lot to drive in the interim, but she had no idea what kind of vehicle he’d get for a loaner.
Uncle Wiley did not have any brand-new silver Porches on his used-car lot.
“Yo, Becky.” Jerry Ruthers, Rebecca’s neighbor who’d dogged her for a date ever since she’d moved into the small duplex next to his, loped toward her, pulling baggy jeans up beneath his sagging belly. “Need a hand?” He flexed his muscles, the bulge shoving the short sleeve of his white T-shirt up, revealing arms layered in thick, dark hair and a cigarette pack.
Rebecca cringed. “Thanks, but I can—”
He pushed her aside, yanked out the hope chest much the same as Thomas had done, except Jerry added a melodramatic grunt, and sweat poured down his unshaven face. He thundered toward the front door, his jeans slipping down his backside.
She hurried after him, deciding to buy him a belt to hold up his pants in exchange for his good deed.
“Where do you want it, Becky?”
She hated being called Becky, but she unlocked the door and ignored the nickname, not wanting to prolong their conversation. “The den is fine.” She gestured toward the blue ruffled sofa and watched him heave as he lowered the chest to the faded beige carpet.
He whistled, wiped at his forehead with his arm, then grinned. “What you got in there, sugar cakes?”
“Some things from my grandmother.” She inched back toward the door, hoping he would follow. She didn’t intend to discuss the hope chest with him any more than she had with Thomas.
“Dang it, you look pretty today.”