Seeking Single Male (13 page)

in a job she hated, with the same narrow view of the world: cynical and clinical. Holy high heels.

But even though she carried a reluctant passenger tonight, the streets were beautiful, awash with twinkling lights and strung

with banners heralding the holiday season. The air was as cool as peppermint in her throat and lungs. People moved along the

sidewalks in clusters, leaving restaurants and visiting shops that had extended their hours for Christmas. On impulse, she

detoured a few blocks to buzz by Tremont's department store and take in the lit window displays—looping trains and animated

dolls and spinning tricycles. Pure magic.

"My father brought me here every year to look in the windows when I was little," Lana said, slowing at the corner to relive

the memories.

"Mine, too," he said, his voice thick.

Surprised at his admission, she tried to imagine Greg as a child. Solemn, brooding, temperamental. "And afterward, we'd

have hot cider from a street cart," she added.

"With cinnamon sticks to stir."

His words triggered a smile. "Yes!" How extraordinary that they shared a memory. But when she turned her head to say so,

his face was closer than she'd expected. The wind had whipped his dark hair over his forehead, concealing the furrows there.

Her pulse picked up at the glimpse of a more carefree Greg Healey. A faint smile licked at the corners of his strong mouth.

Then his eyes went wide.

"Watch out!"

She jerked her attention back to the road and swerved to avoid a metal trash can that had rolled into the street. They nearly

wiped out, but Greg saved the day by assuming their weight, first on one foot then the other, as she fought for control. Finally

Lana yanked the cycle toward the curb and braked to a stop. They promptly fell over, bike and all, spilling onto the sidewalk, a

knot of arms and legs and handlebars. She lay still for a few seconds, taking stock of her limbs and joints. Actually, the impact

hadn't been that bad.

A grunt sounded beneath her, explaining
why
the impact hadn't been that bad. "Are you all right?" she asked.

"I will be when you get off me," he muttered, his voice menacingly calm.

She was suddenly very aware of his big, firm body beneath hers, warm and accommodating. The sensation wasn't wholly

unpleasant, but she couldn't very well lie there enjoying it when the man obviously didn't share her opinion. She flailed her

arms, but her efforts were futile in the bulky coat. Beneath her, his body jerked, and she realized she heard laughter. The

shocking sound started her laughing, too, and their voices blended in the clear air.

"You folks need a hand?"

She sobered and looked up into the face of a middle-aged stranger. "Uh, no. No, thank you."

The man shook his head and moved on.

She burst into giggles and tried again to get up, but succeeded only in grinding her body against his—to noticeable effect.

Finally, Greg grabbed her arms and rolled her off his body.

She stopped laughing when she realized he was practically on top of her now. His head was bent close, and his torso

covered hers. His labored breath puffed out in little white clouds. Hers might have, if it hadn't been trapped in her chest. Lust

stabbed her low and hard. Shadows swathed his face, but his eyes glinted with…desire? Her lips parted, and she realized that

she wanted him to kiss her again. He swallowed audibly. The absurdity of the situation was overridden by the unmistakable

chemistry that resonated between them, even when heavily clothed, helmeted and lying on freezing pavement.

"Are you okay?" he finally asked, his voice a bit unsteady.

"I think so." If she could think. "You?"

"I think so." He pushed himself up, rubbed his shoulder, then extended his hand to help her. His fingers were long and strong

and warm, even through her thin driving gloves. The passionate moment lingered between them. Confusion clogged her mind

because she couldn't reconcile her dislike of the person with her attraction to the man.

"I—I'm sorry about, um, crashing." She thought it wise not to mention the source of her distraction. "I'm not used to having

another person along."

But if possible, his eyes grew even more serious. "That makes two of us."

She realized with a start that His Uptightness was being philosophical on a cold night standing in the middle of a sidewalk.

She didn't like this side of him because it…messed up her plans.

Averting her gaze, Lana noticed a tear in the sleeve of his suit jacket. "Oh, no, your jacket is ripped." She fingered the

expensive fabric, seized by a curiously domestic urge to fix it.

He glanced down and brushed his hand over the tear, then grinned. "Do you realize that I've walked away from every

encounter with you bearing a battle wound? I can't decide if you're bad luck or if you're trying to get rid of the competition."

She managed a grin as she tightened the strap on her helmet. "I think I'll keep you guessing. I am sorry about the jacket,

though. I'll have it repaired."

"That's not necessary," he said, righting her moped with one hand.

"No, really," she said as she straddled the bike. "I have this employee who's a whiz with a needle and thread." It was

Annette's fault that she and Greg had gotten off to such a rotten start in the first place. "Believe me, she owes me one."

He was standing with his arms crossed.

"Aren't you going to get on?"

"I don't think so."

"Oh, come on, I'll be extra careful."

He shook his head. "Not unless I can drive."

"What? No way."

"Yes way. I'm driving, or I take a taxi back to the restaurant."

Lana frowned and looked around. They were only about four blocks away from her shop. "Okay," she said, climbing off to

give him access to the handlebars. "But if you demolish my bike, you have to provide me with another mode of transportation."

"I'm sure Will would loan you his horse," he said, his voice almost teasing, except the man didn't tease. He threw one long

leg over the moped, turned the key and wrapped his big hands around the grips.

"I'm afraid of horses," she said with a little laugh. He looked preposterous, twice as big as the bike, dressed in suit and tie,

his legs winged out to the sides. She climbed on behind him, her mood lighter than in recent memory. "But I might take that

little Porsche until my bike got out of the shop."

"Hypocrite," he said over his shoulder.

"Bully."

"Hang on."

He accelerated so quickly, she grabbed his waist, and when he didn't resist, she leaned into his warmth to give him

directions. "Turn here. Okay, go straight." He had a few problems changing gears, and he was heavy on the brakes, but they

moved along at a fairly consistent pace and finally reached the Hyde Parkland section.

"Slow down," she urged, and he slowed until the bike was barely moving. "There's Marshall Ballou's place. He was at the

council meeting. Marsh has built quite a following."

"Used clothing?" he asked, his voice dubious.

"Vintage clothing," she corrected. "Just another way to recycle. Over there is Vic's Barber Shop. He's been in that location

for longer than you and I have been alive."

He grunted acknowledgment. They wound around a couple more streets, dodging cars illegally parked.

"And over there is Paige Hollander's gift shop—she has a herb garden in the back where she serves sandwiches and tea. And

two doors up is Maxie Dodd's bakery—she makes the best sourdough in town. I'll bet the restaurant where we ate tonight buys

their dinner rolls from Maxie."

She pointed out another half-dozen mom-and-pop shops before they turned onto Hunt Street and headed toward her own

business. "There's a rare-books store on one side of my shop, and a T-shirt business on the other side. Do you mind if I stop by

my shop to check on things before taking you back to your car? It'll give us a chance to talk, too."

"Fine with me. I could use a hot cup of coffee."

Too late, she realized she'd have to let Annette in on her plan to butter up Greg Healey. Otherwise, the woman might take one

look at him and decide that he wasn't a loser, after all, then spill the beans that
she
was Coffee Girl and
they
were destined to

be together.

He wheeled into a tight spot and came to a too-abrupt stop, jamming her up against his shoulder blades. "Sorry," she

murmured, tingling with awareness.

He turned his head. "I'm not."

They were still for an agonizing few seconds. To her dismay, she didn't want to let go, didn't want their intimate ride to end.

In that split second, she wished she and Greg weren't embroiled in a sticky business fray—but things were what they were.

Besides, the complications forced her to maintain a respectable distance from a man who was completely wrong for her. He'd

seemed duly unimpressed with the causes she thought were important.

Lana eased back and dismounted, then quickly secured the cycle, her heart still pounding over his provocative statement.
I'm

not.
Hadn't Alex warned her about letting her lust lead her astray?

While walking inside, she chided herself—she couldn't afford to become emotionally involved; she just needed him to ease

up on the rezoning issue. Just a little flirting.
Maybe
a kiss or two.

He held open the door the way her father used to—so she'd have to pass under his arm. The gesture made her feel strangely

protected, but she didn't have long to savor it. Her jaw dropped to see her friend Alex working behind the counter, her mussed

hair and flushed face indicative of her frazzled state. "Alex, what are you doing here?"

Alex put a hand to her chest. "Thank goodness, you're back."

"Where's Annette?" Lana asked as she automatically grabbed an apron and slid behind the counter.

"Her ankle swelled up like a balloon. She called me, thinking I might know where you'd gone, and I told her I'd fill in." She

blew her bangs straight up. "I hope I didn't scare away any customers."

"Don't be silly. Thanks, Alex. I should've told Annette where I'd be."

"And where were you?" her friend asked, her voice low and laced with innuendo as she glanced toward Greg, then back.

"Working the man into a lather?"

"Shh. Here he comes." She smiled at him, struck anew by his dark good looks. "Greg Healey, meet my best friend, Alex

Stillman."

"Nice to meet you," he said smoothly. "Weren't you at the council meeting last night?"

"Yes," Alex said, then smacked Lana on the back. "Wasn't Lana great? She's very smart, you know. She's a member of Mensa

—
ow!
"

Lana patted the skin where she'd just inflicted a pinch on her friend's arm. "Thanks, Alex. I'm sure Jack is wondering where

you are."

The corners of Greg's mouth twitched. "You're the one who married Jack the Attack Stillman. I remember him from UK."

"He remembers you, too," Alex said in a saccharine-sweet tone. "Except he used other letters when he talked about you

—
ow!
"

Lana pasted on a smile and jerked her head toward the door. "Say
good-night,
Alex."

Her friend smirked and removed her apron. "Good night. Call me when you get a chance?" Alex's voice was high and

unnatural.

She shot her an exasperated look. "Yes. Don't worry about me."

"Oh, I won't," Alex said loudly as she walked from behind the counter. "Because I know you have a black belt and you can

take care of yourself."

Lana could only stare at her lying friend until Alex had walked out the door.

Greg walked to the counter and lifted an eyebrow. "Mensa?"

"Don't listen to her," she said with a laugh. "Alex must have drunk too much caffeine while she was here."

One corner of his mouth went back, and he jerked his thumb toward the door. "Listen, you're busy. I'll just take a taxi back to

my car."

Her heart quickened as Greg took a tentative step backward. She realized with awful clarity that she didn't want him to

leave, and that while saving her business should have been uppermost in her mind, it wasn't. "Wait!"

He stopped.

She conjured up a shaky smile. "I close in less than an hour, if you want to stick around. Maybe we'll get a quiet moment to…

talk."

He looked back at the door, hesitating. Lana's heart thumped in her chest. Maybe he didn't feel the same push-pull sensation

when their bodies came within ten feet of each other. Maybe he thought she was a kook, and wanted to return to his own kind.

Heck, maybe she
was
a kook.

"Okay," he said with a shrug. "I'll stay."

Her friend Alex probably would have declared the little jolt of happiness Lana experienced at his response, which was

casual at best, a sign of desperate loneliness. Thank goodness, Alex wasn't around.

13

GREG TOOK IN THE BUSTLING SHOP
—customers sitting and standing, laughing and talking over the music of two

acoustic guitarists flanked by no fewer than four Christmas trees on the cramped little stage. Miles of lights twinkled from the

rafters. Aromas of coffee and chocolate and sugar filled his lungs. The place had charm, all right. Then he looked back to Lana