Authors: Ruby Laska
Tags: #Literature & Fiction, #Women's Fiction, #Contemporary Women, #Contemporary, #Romantic Comedy, #Contemporary Fiction, #Romance, #Contemporary Romance, #Reunited Lovers
Mine 'Til Monday
Mine ‘Til Monday
By
Ruby Laska
Copyright 2012 by Ruby Laska
Discover other titles by Ruby Laska at
http://rubylaska.blogspot.com/
TABLE OF CONTENTS
Dorothy Albright had an unshakable policy against second thoughts.
After all, if you wanted to earn your first patent before your twenty-fifth birthday, and take over a Fortune Five Hundred company before your thirty-fifth—well, then you simply couldn’t afford to look back.
Which was a good thing. Because the feeling she got when she opened the door and found herself staring up at Mud Taylor, the feeling that started in the pit of her stomach and lurched dizzily through the rest of her body, felt an awfully lot like regret. And regrets were out of the question.
Only yesterday Dorothy had asked Mud to marry her.
Well, not exactly to marry her, technically. But for the next few weeks, Mud was going to be her fiancé.
“Thanks for coming.” She managed a weak smile. “I know this was short notice.”
Mud nodded slowly. The grin that spread out over his face was crooked and untroubled and as comfortable as a porch swing.
“Well, if I’m supposed to be crazy enough about you to marry you, I guess I can manage to show up for dinner.”
Mud stooped for a kiss, brushing his lips against her cheek.
And sent a tremor rocketing through her as if she’d touched a live wire. It was the craziest thing. She’d known Mud practically her whole life. Had a crush on him for a while, true, but that was long ago. He had kissed her a few times since they reached adulthood, perfunctory little social kisses when they crossed paths every year or two. There was nothing to those kisses, a fraction of a second of contact, involving maybe a few square millimeters of skin. The kind of kiss you gave your great-aunt.
So why did Mud’s kisses always set her heart pounding? It was ridiculous. It was unseemly. It had to be some sort of meaningless leftover chemical response—-
“I brought you something.” Mud held out a sad little bouquet of daisies tied with a length of twine. “Florist was closed. Had to steal these from my neighbor. Next time I’ll do better.”
As he handed her the wilting bouquet, awkwardly scooping up an errant stalk or two and folding them into her hands, Mud’s thumbs glanced off Dorothy’s palm and she registered way too much about his touch. His hands were rough, big strong hands that did more than push paper every day of the week. And warm. Compared to the cool evening breeze that circulated through the open windows, Mud’s touch felt like it could melt her skin.
Before Dorothy had a chance to properly chastise herself for her reaction, Mud stepped closer and took her shoulders in his hands.
“Hey.” He drew her a little closer, trailing his gaze slowly from her face down her throat, and lazily across her body before returning unhurriedly to her eyes. She caught a whiff of his scent: early autumn mixed with soap, tart and smoky and undeniably appealing. A good clean scent that, like everything else, he probably accomplished without even trying.
She wished he’d let go of her. Once a man breaks your heart—even if you were just kids—there should be a law against him staring too deeply into your eyes. Especially if his own were as blue as forget-me-nots.
“You know what,” he said, frowning slightly and finally releasing her, “I think you’ve shrunk.”
Dorothy drew in a sharp intake of air, let it slowly out. Counted to ten. Leave it to Mud to say whatever came into his mind, no matter how rude. But she was almost grateful—she’d gladly take irritation over whatever it was she’d been feeling a moment earlier.
“No, I haven’t.” So he was still a thoughtless clod. Good. A clod she could handle. Dorothy stepped aside to make way for Mud to plow by into her apartment. “The last time you saw me I was in four-inch heels.”
“Four inch heels, huh?” Mud repeated, ambling past and assessing her apartment without making any attempt to hide it.
“Pink satin pumps. My cousin Bitsy’s wedding, remember? I was the maid of honor?”
At last recognition flared on his face. “Oh yeah. Hottest day of August what—four years ago? Let’s see, pink dress, bow on your butt, hair in that ridiculous thing on top of your head, neckline cut down to—”
“So you do remember,” Dorothy interjected testily. Too late she realized he’d been kidding around with her. He’d remembered their last encounter all along. And she’d fallen for it. Just like every other time in the last thirty years, she’d taken the bait, and now he was grinning from one side of that near-perfect face clear to the other.
“Yeah, I remember. It would be hard to forget that dress. You all looked like a row of droopy tulips up there on the altar. I’m surprised that big old bow didn’t make one of you tip over backwards. That would’ve been a sight, wouldn’t it?”
Dorothy managed a weak grin to show she could take a joke. They were adults now. And more importantly, she needed him. Distasteful as it was, only Mud Taylor could help her out of the jam she’d gotten herself into.
“I have a few more things to finish up for dinner,” she said coolly. “Won’t you have a seat?”
“Hey, I’ll be glad to pitch in. What’re we having?”
Dorothy retreated to the kitchen, but Mud kept pace.
“Oh, really, I can manage,” she protested. “Can I get you a drink?”
“Cold beer would do the trick, if you have one.” Mud pulled out a chair from the kitchen table, and settled his lanky frame into it. He accepted the beer she offered, waving away a glass, and took a deep draw, then leaned back and balanced the can on the knee of his work pants.
Work pants! A few smudges of paint decorated the faded canvas—which outlined his body perfectly, Dorothy couldn’t help noticing, the worn fabric dangerously close to fraying right over the most critical areas of his taught curved musculature. The hems skimming the canvas sneakers were frayed. And his denim shirt looked even worse. In fact, it was all worse than she’d feared—and she had very little time to fix him.
“Smells good in here,” Mud said mildly, interrupting her thoughts. “Place looks nice, too.”
“Thank you.” Dorothy returned her attention to the stove, frowning. “I’ve—it’s the way I like it.”
“Classy, with the antiques and all. Kind of reminds me of the old homestead.”
“Your father always did have good taste.”
Mud chuckled, a hearty deep sound he made no attempt to muffle. “Aw, come on. We both know Dad didn’t have a lick of taste. He paid somebody to do up every inch of that old place. Dad wouldn’t have known a Hepplewhite from a Barcalounger.”
“Oh, I think you’re being too hard on him. He really brought life to Galeworth House.” Dorothy smiled to herself, remembering the rambling old mansion outside Detroit where she had spent all the summers of her youth.
Mud laughed harder. “You know, the only reason Dad bought that place because it came with a title. I mean, come on—he was a bricklayer’s son. I think he thought buying Galeworth House would bump him right up into the social register or something. A few million bucks really put stars in his eyes.”
“Oh, he loved that place! And you did too,” Dorothy reproved. “We all did.”
“Yeah.” Mud quieted down, but a fond smile lingered. “I guess I did. I miss the place a little. Hell, I miss the old coot. A lot.”
Dorothy concentrated on her cooking, stirring a little wine into the sauce on the stove. Her thoughts returned to the problem at hand. She had until Friday night to turn the sow’s ear sitting in her kitchen into a silk purse—the silk purse that would land her the biggest career coup of her life. If only she could transform Mud into an acceptable fiancé, Miranda Purcell would finally be convinced that Dorothy was the suitable heir for Finesse Sportswear, Inc.
“Er, Mud? Do you own a sport coat?”
“Naw. But maybe I can borrow one from my bookkeeper. He’s into polyester, but at least he’s about my size.”
Dorothy whirled around, mouth opened in protest—and was rewarded with a wink.
“Come on, Dot. I’m just kidding. Of course I’ve got a sport coat. Hell, I’ve got a closet full of ‘em, and nowhere to wear them anymore.”
Dorothy clamped her mouth shut and glared. “It was just a question. The weekend’s likely to be formal. Miranda’s having some people for dinner Saturday, and we’re the guests of honor.”
“Yeah. Right. Give me a little credit, will you? I think I can manage to dress myself. I’ll lay on the charm for the old broad, just like I promised.”
Dorothy gritted her teeth. “Look, I’m truly sorry to be dragging you into this mess with me, but it’s really important that you make a good impression with Miranda. She has certain expectations about a person’s—that is to say, she values a traditional sort of...”
“Come on, out with it.”
“What I’m trying to say is that one of the reasons I picked you was your, ah, privileged upbringing.”
“Oh ho!” Mud grinned, clattering the legs of his chair to the floor and slapping his knee. “You needed a fancy boy with a pedigree, and I was the best you could come up with?”
Dorothy resisted the urge to upend her saucepan over his head. “No, as I explained, there were a variety of reasons I asked you to help me.”
“Yeah, but that silver spoon I was born with has accumulated quite a bit of tarnish. That’s what you were thinking, right? I mean, I’m not exactly the polo league poster boy, now am I, Dot?”
“Would you please not call me Dot?”
“I’ve always called you Dot.”
“Yes. You have always called me Dot. But no one else has. Not my family, my friends, my business associates—not any other soul on the entire planet. And there’s a very good reason. My name is Dorothy.” She enunciated the last few syllables very carefully.
Silence. Suspiciously, Dorothy glanced around at Mud, who was regarding her with a slightly wounded expression. When he caught her watching, his eyes widened slightly and the corners of his mouth tugged down.
That look. He’d been born with it, she’d wager, and he sure knew how to use it. Eyes approximately the shade of faded denim, permanently switched to high beam like the headlights on an eighteen wheeler bearing down way too fast.
Dorothy gave in like she always did, dropping her gaze to her task. She deftly twisted the corkscrew into place, then paused to examine the label.
“Crestwood Vineyard?” Surprise stilled her efforts. Even she had heard about the Merlot she held in her hands, this year’s favorite vintage. “Wow, somebody gave you some good advice.”
Mac’s face re-arranged itself into an easy, unselfconscious grin. “Still never giving me the benefit of the doubt, are you, Dot? I actually know a thing or two about the grape.”
“I’m sorry.” She meant it. Sort of. “I guess I’ve really lost touch with the details of your life. I imagine you’ve picked up all kinds of skills since —” She let it drop, not willing to evoke a time when she knew every detail of his life, every thought that went through his pre-teen mind. When they’d been best friends, worst enemies, all at once.
“So, to you I’m still the unwashed heathen, disgrace to the family name, eccentric black sheep...”
She had to smile then. “You make it sound almost romantic.”
“Hardly.” His grin turned rueful. “Don’t get me wrong. I’m doing exactly what I want to be doing. No regrets.”
“Not many people can say that.”
“Yeah. But romantic? I mean, rattling around the shop isn’t exactly glamorous.”
“You must like it, though.”
Mud spread his hands wide and shrugged. “I’ve got everything I need, I’m my own boss, and I get first crack at every new thing to come down the pike in the world of golf.”
Dorothy hesitated. There were things she didn’t know about Mud, clearly. Like the mystery of what happened to all the beautiful women he was seen escorting, or the reason he’d decided not to carry on his father’s wildly lucrative plumbing parts business. Or why he’d left pro golf to open a golf shop, and not a particularly successful one at that.
“Mud,” she said carefully. “Why did you leave the tour?”
He didn’t withdraw, as she’d feared; didn’t evade her question with an offhand comment or flip reaction. Didn’t even blink.
“I wasn’t good enough.”
“But the Phoenix Open, in ‘95, you took second place. Dick Enberg called you the next sure thing.”
“Enberg’s a little too easy to impress. Plus he knew my Dad. How did you know about that, anyway?”
Dorothy allowed herself a small smile. “I do my homework.”
His eyebrows shot up appreciatively. “I guess. So maybe you also know that a couple weeks later at the Buick Invitational, I completely tanked in the first round—”
