At First Touch (5 page)

W
yatt smiled across the table at Dorrie. Dorrie sent him a shy smile in return, then went back to pushing her food around her plate. Wyatt went back to his own plate. He had taken his mother's advice. He had driven to Dorrie's small apartment above her office on Main Street and he had fixed her drain, then he had asked her to lunch. The two had walked the few short blocks from her place to Annie's Diner, the most popular of the town's few diners.

It had been perfect. The men they had passed on the way to the café had smiled knowingly at Wyatt, and the women had smiled excitedly at Dorrie. Obviously, Sibleyville was ready for another wedding. Although given that Quinn was still suffering repercussions from the last one, Wyatt thought maybe it was best that weddings didn't happen that often around town.

Wyatt forcibly pushed those thoughts out of his head. Quinn was probably long gone by now, on her way back to Los Angeles, looking for another movie director to harass. And Wyatt was here with Dorrie, the woman he could build a life with. A life of complete and utter silence, because Dorrie hadn't said more than six words since they had sat at the table.

Wyatt didn't necessarily need to talk for the sake of talking—he was a mortician, after all—but he didn't think that an occasional exchange of words was asking too much. He could barely get Quinn to shut up.

Wyatt glanced around the diner and noticed more than a few of the older couples at the various tables throughout the diner staring at him. Vera Spears winked at him and gave him an encouraging nod. Wyatt inwardly groaned. Sometimes, he really hated living in a small town.

Wyatt turned back to Dorrie, who was staring at him and quickly looked back down at her plate. She really was cute. She had sun-kissed golden skin, bright brown eyes and dark hair that she wore parted down the middle. She barely reached his shoulders in her sensible pumps. The word
stiletto
probably wasn't even a part of her vocabulary. She was petite, sweet and soft in all the right places. Just like a wife should be.

Wyatt cleared his throat and asked, “So—you like the pot pie?”

“Yes.”

“My mom makes a great pot pie.”

Dorrie murmured in response and continued pushing around her food. Wyatt thought about banging his head on the table. Maybe that would get a reaction beyond mild politeness. Quinn probably would have gone on a ten-minute monologue about her movie character's dining proclivities.

Wyatt felt guilty once more. He shouldn't be thinking about Quinn, let alone comparing Dorrie to Quinn.

Dorrie suddenly looked up at him and asked hesitantly, “Your mother said that you're interested in plants and flowers?”

“I am,” he said, trying to hide his surprise that she had asked him a personal question. “I mean, it's just a hobby but it's something I really enjoy. You know, dealing with flowers kind of offsets the mortuary business. We haven't seen a lot of deaths in the last two years, but it's always the prospect—”

“Beatrice said that you even have a little nursery behind the house,” she interjected quickly, obviously uncomfortable with the subject of death.

Wyatt tried not to take offense at the description
little.
Last year, he had made more money from his “little” nursery, planning and tending the town's landscape and growing flowers for people in the area, than his father had ever made from the mortuary in a year.

“It's a side project,” he finally said.

“What's your favorite flower?”

“Favorite flower? I don't know.”

“I like roses.”

Wyatt refrained from his numerous complaints about the most oversold flower in the States. “Roses are nice. I have a greenhouse behind the house. I even have a small section of orchids. They're a very delicate plant to grow, but I portioned off a section of the greenhouse and tried to make conditions perfect. I think it's working. I also have gardenias and hydrangeas and…”

His voice trailed off as Dorrie put her hand on his. Her smile was gentle, which made him realize that he had been blabbing. She removed her hand and said, “Maybe you can show me some time.”

“I'd like that,” he said, grinning probably wide enough for his mother to see it back at the house. Dorrie returned his smile.

Wyatt noticed a sudden shift in the air. He also noticed that no one in the diner was staring at them anymore. Instead, they were staring at the door. Wyatt followed their stares and couldn't suppress the cough of disbelief as Quinn stood in the door frame. She didn't just stand. She posed, as if allowing everyone to get a full look at her. And every man in the place was incredibly grateful.

She wore a teensy-weensy, barely-there black skirt, black fishnets, black pointy-toed, calf-length boots and a sweater that dipped too low to really be considered a sweater. Wyatt supposed it was Quinn's version of a winter outfit, but he couldn't understand how she could prance around in so few clothes when it was close to fifty degrees outside.

Quinn flipped her now straight hair over her shoulder and sauntered across the restaurant toward Wyatt. She kept her gaze on him the entire time, ignoring everyone else. She stopped in front of his table and leaned down, giving him a view of the front and everyone else in the restaurant a view of the back. His body hardened and tightened, as if it knew what was near and didn't appreciate Wyatt not doing what his body obviously wanted to do.

“Hi, Wyatt,” she breathed, her lips so close to his ear that he could feel her breath heat the shell of his ear.

If Wyatt didn't know better, he would think that “Hi, Wyatt,” meant “Take me back to my house and pound into me until I can't walk anymore.” He wanted to bury his face in her hair and smell it and touch it and pull it as he entered her—

Wyatt swallowed the lump in his throat and met her gaze. Everything about her screamed sex, but the look in her eyes twinkled with something else. Mischief.

“Quinn,” Wyatt greeted carefully.

“Mind if I join you?” she purred.

Without waiting for a response, she slid into the booth next to Wyatt, her thigh pressing into his. Wyatt grimaced and moved farther over until he was pressed against the window, but she only followed him until every inch of her thigh pressed against every inch of his. Quinn had never willingly sat next to him, let alone touched him, since he had known her. Something was definitely up, and it had nothing to do with what was in his pants.

Quinn smiled at Dorrie, who looked transfixed with awe, and offered her hand. “I don't think we've met. I'm Quinn Sibley. I hope I'm not intruding.”

Dorrie stared at Quinn for a moment, then appeared to snap out of whatever daze she was in and shook Quinn's hand. “I know who you are. I watch
Diamond Valley
, or…I used to, until they killed you off.”

Quinn's pleasure was evident as she said, “Really?” Quinn playfully jabbed Wyatt in the arm and asked, “Why didn't you tell me you were having lunch with a woman with such good taste?” Wyatt narrowed his eyes at her, and Quinn turned to Dorrie. “Sometimes Wyatt has the worst manners. What is your name?”

“Dorrie Diamond.”

“What a beautiful name,” Quinn gushed, obviously not remembering her comic book comment from yesterday. “You stopped watching
Diamond Valley
because of me?”

“Of course,” Dorrie said, nodding eagerly. “Sephora was the best part of that show. The only reason to watch it.”

“I thought so, too,” Quinn agreed.

Wyatt decided that whatever game Quinn was playing had gone on long enough, especially since she had placed her elbow on the table, touching his.

He cleared his throat and said, “Quinn—”

Dorrie interrupted him, her gaze still on Quinn. “Ms. Sibley—”

“Please call me Quinn,” Quinn said, patting Dorrie's arm.

Dorrie gave Quinn a wide smile that she had never given him. “Quinn, I always wondered, what is Gregory like in real life?”

Quinn laughed and tossed her hair over her shoulder in a cascading waterfall of brown silk. “I'm not surprised. Every woman in America wants the lowdown about Gregory Rotelle. He seems so debonair and sophisticated on television, but believe me, honey, the man deserves an Emmy for even being able to portray a human. In real life, he's an ass. He spent more time in hair and makeup than most of the women. And, for the record, the hair is not real.”

Dorrie giggled, her pale skin coloring slightly. “No!” she gasped, moving her hand to cover her mouth.

Wyatt grew more annoyed. He still hadn't gotten a laugh out of Dorrie.

“Oh, yes. His real hairline starts somewhere around the top of his ears,” Quinn said with a conspiratorial wink, causing Dorrie to collapse into laughter.

“Quinn,” Wyatt said in a low, quiet voice that neither woman could ignore. Dorrie glanced at him and stared back down at her plate, her smile disappearing, while Quinn looked at him with an innocent expression that would have fooled only a blind man. He clenched his teeth and demanded, “What do you want?”

“Wyatt!” Dorrie admonished in a whisper, as if Quinn wouldn't be able to hear her.

“It's all right, Dorrie,” Quinn said sweetly, patting the woman's arm again. “I'm used to Wyatt's moods.”

“Moods?” Dorrie repeated hesitantly.

“Quinn,” Wyatt said, a little louder this time. Quinn sent him another innocent smile. “What are you doing here?”

“Wyatt, I'm not sure I like your tone,” Dorrie said, sounding offended on Quinn's behalf.

Quinn bit her bottom lip to hide her smile from Dorrie, but she didn't hide the twinkle of amusement in her eyes as she turned to Wyatt.

Dorrie sent Wyatt a death stare, then smiled at Quinn. “I apologize for Wyatt's behavior. You're obviously here for lunch and just stopped by to say hello. That's very nice—”

“I'm not here for lunch, unless they've changed the menu to include items that don't automatically turn you into a cow,” Quinn said, then turned to Wyatt with a lovestruck look in her eyes. She placed a hand on his arm. “I came here because I heard that Wyatt would be here. He and I had a small argument this morning and I wanted to apologize.”

Wyatt could almost hear some cheesy soap opera music playing in the background. He glanced at Dorrie. She looked as if she had swallowed something distasteful. And Wyatt instantly knew what Quinn's little show was about.

Wyatt narrowed his eyes at Quinn, who blinked at him. He moved his arm from her touch. “Apology accepted, Quinn. You can go now.”

“Will I see you later tonight?” Quinn waited a dramatic beat, then added, “When Graham and Charlie get here.”

“Quinn, we'll talk later,” he replied tightly. “You can go. Now.

Quinn jumped from the booth, pulling down the skirt that had ridden up her thighs. Then he got distracted by the fishnets. He gulped. Hard.

Quinn avoided his eyes and smiled at Dorrie, who was looking at Quinn as if she wasn't her favorite soap actress anymore.

“Dorrie, it was wonderful to meet you. Maybe we can get together and I'll give you more dirt about the show.”

Dorrie murmured noncommittally, then sent Quinn a wan smile. Quinn glanced at Wyatt, then quickly turned and nearly ran out the diner. Wyatt would have felt some satisfaction, but Dorrie was looking at him with a strange expression. Two steps forward and twelve steps back.

“Can we go?” Dorrie asked, glancing around the diner for the owner, Annie. “I have a client coming at one-thirty.”

“Of course.” Wyatt pulled out his wallet, dug out enough cash to cover the bill and stood.

He offered his hand to Dorrie, but she ignored it and stood on her own. She grabbed her coat from the booth, then walked out the diner without another glance in Wyatt's direction.

“Nice going, Wyatt,” someone yelled out dryly.

Wyatt ignored the catcalls that followed and shrugged into his own coat before he hurried out the diner after her. Dorrie was already halfway down the street to her office. He ran to catch up with her.

Quinn had said that it wasn't over, and obviously it wasn't. She was now determined to ruin his life.

“Dorrie, wait,” he said, grabbing her arm.

They stopped in the middle of the sidewalk. The withering look Dorrie gave his hand on her arm made him quickly release her. She relaxed a fraction, then glanced around Main Street. Thankfully, the street was almost deserted. Most people had gone back to their ranches, farms or stores. The lunch hour—as much as there was one in Sibleyville—was over.

“I told you that I have an appointment,” Dorrie said stiffly.

“I'm sorry about that,” he said, motioning back toward the diner. “Quinn and I had a little argument this morning when she stopped by the house—uninvited, I might add—and that's all. There was nothing more to it.”

“Quinn's reaction to you didn't seem like nothing,” Dorrie said quietly, avoiding his eyes.