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Authors: Lori Copeland

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“He's been moping around like a neutered cat all week,” Flo said. “What happened between you two the other night?”

“Nothing. We had dinner with friends.”

“Yeah. And?”

Ginny leaned across the counter. “Come on, spill your guts.”

Temple concentrated on her coffee cup. “There's nothing to spill. We had dinner with some friends of his, went back to the hotel and went to bed.”

“Yessss!” Flo crowed, her fist punching the air.

“And went to sleep. Nothing happened. Satisfied?”

“If you were.”

Temple didn't like the direction this conversation was taking, but she couldn't think of a way to divert it without drawing more attention to the subject. And that was the last thing she needed, more questions.

“Craig isn't interested in meâheâheâ” she said the first thing that popped into her mind “âlikes my cookies.”

Flo grinned. “Does he ever.”

“Cookies, my foot,” Ginny said. “I've seen the way he looks at you and cookies are the last thing on that man's mind.”

“You ought to get this âfriend' thing out of your head,” Flo added. “What's wrong with being lovers?”

“Excuse me,” Temple said suddenly. “I have to run. I'm late for my flight.” Sliding off the stool, Temple reached for her flight bag.

“Coward,” Ginny accused.

“Cookies,” Flo scoffed. “I'll bet.”

Once Temple was on board, she checked the galley, started coffee, then walked through the cabin. Craig and Bruce Dumont were in the cockpit finishing the preflight checks when she stepped inside. “Coffee?”

“You're a lifesaver,” Bruce said, taking a cup while keeping his attention on his clipboard and gauges.

“Brakes.”

“Applied and set,” Craig said, also taking a cup.

“Mixture.”

“Full rich.”

Craig sipped his coffee. “Have a good time at Grams's?”

“Wonderful, thank you. I know I've gained ten pounds on all the French toast, mashed potatoes, pot roast and gravy I ate.”

Craig's eyes skimmed her trim figure. “I don't think so.”

“Flaps.”

“Check.”

There wasn't the usual banter this morning, but Temple told herself it was because they were running behind schedule. Taking her cue, she exited the cockpit and returned to the galley.

The day went without incident, and they landed back in Dallas around six-thirty.

She wasn't hiding from Craig. Why should she? Nevertheless, she went straight home from work.

Thumbing through her mail as she rode the elevator to her apartment, Temple stopped when she saw the familiar scrawl on a yellow envelope.

“Nancy,” she told the empty car.

Thumbing open the envelope, she scanned the short letter.

“Oh, brother,” she breathed.

Talk about bad timing. Nancy was coming to Dallas for a couple of days to see friends and wanted to have dinner with her one evening. Nancy would have a million questions about Craigâwho he was seeing being the principal one.

She wished... What did she wish? That Craig wasn't a pilot? That Nancy wasn't a friend? That she felt more secure about pilots? That she wished Nancy would forget about Craig? Fat chance. That she could forget she and Craig had made love and it had been nothing short of fantastic? Impossible.

She entered her apartment and threw Nancy's letter onto the desk, unwilling to deal with the visit and the questions tonight. Tonight she'd think about something, anything but Craig Stevens.

When the evening dragged on, she decided to do laundry. She'd finished two loads and had the first in a dryer, when a male tenant shouldered his way into the laundry room.

“Hi,” he said, setting his clothes basket on a washer.

“Hi,” she returned idly, thumbing through the latest issue of
People.

From the corner of her eye, she watched him stuff clothes into the washer and wondered why it was that the mechanics of doing laundry escaped most men. They could tell you how an engine ran, or build jet planes, but sorting whites from coloreds? They went into a mental blackout.

Her dryer buzzed and she tossed the magazine back onto the cluttered wire table in the corner.

“I've never been able to get my clothes dry in less than three tries,” he said.

She glanced over her shoulder. The man was stuffing jeans and whites into a second washer.

“I've tried them all,” he said. “They have them set on low to prevent dummies like me from melting the elastic in their shorts.”

Temple had to smile. He did have a certain charm, and was rather nice-looking.

He held out his hand. “Brian Baker. 4-D.”

“I've seen you in the lobby,” she said, returning his handshake. “Temple Burney. 3-A.”

“You're the stewardess?”

“We're called hosts and hostesses now.”

“Sorry.”

“It's okay. The men resent the âstewardess' tag.”

He had the grace to laugh and she liked the sound of it. By the time they'd both finished their laundry, he'd asked for her phone number. She'd given it to him and they'd made a date for drinks the next night. Why not? Anything to keep her from thinking of Craig. And maybe she and Brian would hit it off.

Temple suggested they meet at a popular watering hole.

The best way to get one man off my mind is to see another one, she decided. And she wanted Craig off her mind. ARRIVING A FEW MINUTES early the following evening, Temple took a seat at the bar. Brian arrived right on time and she waved to get his attention.

Two marks for him. He hadn't made her wait, and he was dressed neatly in charcoal slacks, a casual jacket, shirt open at the neck. No gold chains or bracelets. Nice.

Fresh start, Temple. This one has promise.

“I'm not late, am I?”

“Not at all.” She caught a whiff of his cologne. An expensive, woodsy blend that was distinctive but not overpowering.

He ordered a drink. “This is nice.”

“It is,” Temple said. Her decision was on target. Remain friends with Craig, look for Mr. Right elsewhere. Might his name be Brian?

The bartender brought Brian's drink, he sipped it and settled himself more comfortably on a bar stool, his knees bumping hers. She felt nothing other than the bump, but it was too early. Lust took time.

They chatted for a while, making small talk. He seemed intelligent and well versed in current affairs. They ordered another round of drinks.

Getting more comfortable, he smiled at her over his glass. “This is going well. So maybe we should get a few things out of the way.”

She studied his intense face. “Pardon?”

“Let's lay some ground rules.”

She sipped her drink, hope starting to recede. But maybe not. “Okay.”

“Well, for starters, what are your religious preferences?”

“Pardon?” She smiled. “I thought that was a subject to be avoided, especially on first dates.”

“I'm different. What're your religious convictions?”

“Well, I was raised Catholicâ”

His glass smacked smartly against the bar and she flinched.

“Catholic?” he roared. He leaned close. “And I suppose you're a Republican to boot.” A vein bulged in his neck. “Are you willing to let those hard-nosed conservatives suck you dry?” He downed his drink in one swallow. “Hell, I can see this is hopeless.”

I'm not even willing to have this conversation, Temple thought. Drink halfway to her mouth, she watched Brian storm out of the bar. Thumbing her nose at his retreating back, she took a sip of her drink.

“Jerk,” she murmured.

She turned and found the bartender watching her. She shrugged and he grinned.

“Well,” she said, reaching for her purse, “I'm glad we didn't get around to money.”

The bartender chuckled.

“I thought I'd have to hand you a bar towel and call a cab.”

“Me? Cry over a blind date?” She tossed a ten on the bar. “I'm a veteran of hellish dates.”

“B
ECKY, I've had it. I've sworn off blind dates,” Temple said. She balanced the phone between her chin and shoulder as she pulled a sheet of cookies out of the oven and kneed the door shut.

“No.

“No!

“Your cousin?”

She slid the cookies onto a cooking rack.

“How long will he be in town?”

She didn't want to go out with anybody's cousin visiting from Philadelphia, but how could she say no? Becky was a good friend. She'd filled in for her when she was out with the flu last year.

“Okay.” She sighed. “As long as we double.”

They made arrangements for Becky and Bob, along with Becky's cousin, Ricky, to pick Temple up at seven-thirty that evening.

“You look smashing!” Becky exclaimed when Temple opened the door.

The rust-colored heavy silk pants suitâstraight-legged trousers and long shirtâwasn't new. She wasn't about to waste good money on a new outfit in the vain hope of snagging Becky's cousin. She'd pulled her hair on top of her head in loose curls and wore gold hoops in her ears, but that was the only concession she'd made to glamour.

“The guys are waiting downstairs.”

“Okay, tell me what I need to know about this cousin of yours.”

“Well, we only see him at family reunionsâ”

Temple stopped, one shoe on and one shoe off. “You only see him every five years?”

“Every two,” Becky corrected. “My side of the family goes to Philadelphia every other year.”

“Beckyâ”

“Oh, it's okay,” she assured Temple. “He's just like my uncle Randall. A real hoot. Has a good time wherever he is.” She laughed at Temple's anxious look. “Oh, come on, silly. It'll be a fun evening. Come on, the men are waiting.”

Feeling she should have stuck to her vow, Temple shoved her driver's license, some change and a small makeup bag into a minuscule purse that matched her suit, and followed Becky downstairs.

Ricky Lawrence was six to eight inches taller than Temple, and beefy like the ex-football player he was. Square face, brown eyes, thinning light brown hair and a crooked grin.

“Well, Temple girl, I'm happy to meet you!” he said, pumping her hand. “Becky said you were gorgeous.” Her hand was lost in his enthusiastic grip.

“Hi, Temple,” Bob called from the front seat of the car. “We've got reservations at Antonio's in twenty minutes.”

Antonio's? Remembering her last experience there, she mentally groaned. She was eating spaghetti no matter what.

On a Friday night, Antonio's was always crowded, so they went into the bar to wait for their table. Temple prayed no one recognized her from the last visit.

Ricky ordered a Scotch and Bob a beer. Becky and Temple ordered white wine.

“Look at that!” Ricky bopped Temple's arm good-naturedly. “Football highlights!”

“Yeah...how about that.” Temple reached for her wineglass.

The TV above the bar was showing bloopers, the missed touchdowns, the mistakes that made the game tolerable for Temple. “Becky tell you I played for Detroit?” Ricky said, his gaze pinned to the TV. “Running back.”

“Oh? What do you do now?”

“Insurance. Look at that! Flipped that quarterback right on his butt.” He punched her on the forearm again.

Two men at the bar turned, recognizing Ricky.

“Hey,” one said, coming over, “aren't youâ”

“Ricky Lawrence.” Ricky stuck out his hand.

“Yeah! I thought so. Never understood why the Lions cut you. Man, you were a runnin' machine!”

A second man joined them and in a few minutes the four men were deep into football conversation.

Becky shrugged apologetically. “This is the way it always is,” she said. “Somebody recognizes him and everything else is forgotten. That's why I wanted you to come along. At least I've got somebody to talk to.”

Temple caught snatches of the men's conversation while she and Becky chatted. Rebecca Winter had been a flight attendant until little Cindy was born eight months earlier. Temple had hosted her baby shower. Though Becky had resigned, they still saw each another frequently.

“She's just a delight,” Becky was saying. “I never knew how much a baby would change our lives. We thoroughly enjoy her.” Becky sipped her wine. “Are you ever going to get married, Temple?”

Temple managed a laugh. “First I have to find the right man.”

“Are you looking?”

“Yes, Becks, I'm looking.”

“Ricky's a good catch,” Becky said candidly.

“I don't know anything about football,” Temple said, “and Philadelphia is too cold in the winter.”

“He doesn't play football anymore.”

A burst of laughter erupted as someone delivered a punch line. Turning around, Ricky hit Temple on the shoulder jovially and ordered another Scotch.

“Johnson, party of four. Johnson party of four.”

“Bob.” Becky grabbed her husband's arm, trying to get his attention. “Our table's ready.”

“Hey, man,” one of the fans shouted to Ricky, “it was good to talk to you!”

“Later, dude!” Ricky called back. “I don't run into many who saw that last game.”

“It's too bad about the kneeâ” The besotted fan was reluctant to let him go.

Becky leaned closer to Temple once they were seated at their table. “Ricky injured a knee the last game he played. It didn't heal well and the Lions cut him the next season. It about killed him. Football's been his life, ever since he started with Mighty Mites in second grade.” Her teeth worried her lower lip. “I hope those men didn't stir up painful memories. Ricky's rather sensitive about the subject....”

Oh, great. Ricky's “sensitive.”

“When did he hurt his leg?” Temple asked.

“Two years ago, maybe three.”

“That's too bad.”

Becky eyed the hangers-on resentfully. “I hope these guys take the hint and go back to the bar.”

Eventually they did, and the two couples turned to the menu.

The waiter approached. “May I get you something from the bar?”

“Nothing for me,” Temple said, scanning the menu.

“Double Scotch,” Ricky ordered, shoving his empty glass toward the waiter.

Bob and Ricky continued the conversation that had started in the bar. Words like
slot back
were mentioned and Becky rolled her eyes in exasperation.

“Whenever these two get together, all they talk about is football. Tell me why you've suddenly sworn off the dating circuit.”

“I'm not off it, exactly,” Temple told her friend. “But no more blind dates.”

“Yeah, they can be beasts.”

“I think I'm cursed. Perfectly normal men turn into weirdos when they're out with me.”

Becky's eyes widened. “Seriously?”

“Seriously. An accountant figured our bill on a napkin âfour times. Then there was the health nutâinto garlic, thought it cured everything.” Temple shuddered, recalling that night. “He âhealed' a whole theater the night we went out.

“I've paid for dinner so many times I'm about over my credit card limit. Actually, I can't afford to look for Mr. Right.”

Ricky, suddenly recalling she was there, turned from his conversation with Bob to punch her on the forearm again. By now it was getting blue from the good-natured shots. “Doin' okay, Cupcake?”

“Fine, thank you. And my name is Temple.”

Becky laughed as Ricky turned back to Bob. “Don't mind him. He gets a little distracted when he talks football.”

Football reigned the conversation until dessert when Bob and Becky began discussing renovations on their old house.

Ricky ordered another drink.

Ten o'clock rolled around. Temple was looking at her watch. The subject was back to football. She was ready to go home.

“Another wine, Cupcake?” Temple dodged as Ricky aimed a fist at her shoulder and missed.

“Ricky, I think Temple wants to go home,” Becky admonished.

“Home!” He peered closely at his watch. “It's only...ten o'clock.”

“That late?” Temple quipped, aware Ricky'd been so busy drowning his “sensitivity,” he'd lost track of time. “I really should be going.”

“Sure thing. Waiter! Another Scotch, please!”

Ten dragged into eleven, eleven into twelve. The group moved to the adjoining bar. Temple and Becky sat on high-back stools with their hands under their chins, listening to football stories. The cleaning crew worked around them.

Deep into a story, Ricky stood up, reached for the first thing that resembled a football to make his point and threw it to the loyal fans who still lingered at the bar. The “football” was Temple's purse.

The small bag sailed across the bar and landed in a bucket of dirty mop water.

The men at the bar burst out laughing. “Missed the pass! Sorry!”

Laughing, Ricky started to sit back down when he lost his balance and fell against a waitress carrying a tray of empty pitchers and glasses.

Temple sprang out of her seat as the tray came crashing down, flinging half-empty glasses of beer, pieces of limes and decorative drink umbrellas at her.

Grabbing a napkin, she tried to sop up the sticky garbage from the front of her silk blouse.

“You need a little fancier footwork, Cupcake!” Ricky laughed, and the men at the bar roared.

“Bob, we have to go. The baby-sitter will think we left town,” Becky complained when the ruckus got louder. The waiter returned to hand Temple her purse, which was soaking wet.

“Okay, sweetheart.” Bob winked at Ricky. “Gotta run. The ole ball and chain has spoken.”

Ricky glanced over at Temple, trying to focus. “Should have a woman like... like...Cupcake here. She's a real sport!”

Wincing, Temple took the forthcoming shot to the forearm in stride.

The men finally paid the bill, and they left the restaurant.

Hooking his arm around Temple's neck, Ricky walked her to the car.

“Hey, you and I have barely had time to talk,” he said. “Go for a nightcap with me.”

“Sorry, I have an early flight in the morning.”

“Good idea, Ricky,” Becky seconded amid Temple's spirited protests. “You two haven't had a chance to get to know each other.”

Temple shot her an impatient look. Before she could stop him, Ricky hailed a cab.

He squeezed the back of her neck. “We'll just stop off for a little nightcap, then I'll see you home.”

She sent Becky a desperate look, but Becky was already in the car. Waving goodbye, she and Bob drove off.

“Would you mind dropping me by my apartment,” Temple said as he opened the door of the cab for her.

“Sure thing. After our nightcap. One drink, and you're on your way.”

Aware of the condition of her stained clothing, she tried again. “Ricky, I'd rather not be seen in this condition.”

“What condition? You look great! Besides, the place we're going is practically empty at this hour.” He got in, gave the driver an address, then sat back, stretching his arm over the back of her seat.

“This is fun, huh?” he said expansively.

“Wonderful,” she said lamely.

The cab pulled up in front of a small cocktail bar in a part of town Temple wasn't familiar with.

“They know me here,” Ricky reassured her as they got out. “Friends of mine own the place. Used to play against 'em.”

Personally autographed pictures of football players covered half of one wall. Ricky waved to the bartender as he directed Temple to a back table against the “glory wall.” It was nearing 1:00 a.m., but the bar was crowded with ex-football players and their wives or girlfriends.

“What do you want?” Ricky asked, his gaze skimming over the crowd.

To disappear, Temple thought.

“Nothing, thanks.”

“One Scotch,” he ordered when a little blonde in threeinch heels and wearing minuscule shorts and crop top made her way to the table.

“Sure thing, hon,” the waitress said and minced off.

“Ricky!” a solid wall of muscle called out, making his way to their table.