Instead, she countered, “Any particular reason you won’t commit?”
For the first time since he’d walked into the café the amiable and amused expression on his face cracked slightly. She’d struck a nerve, and that was annoying because she hadn’t thought he had any.
“Why does any man resist committing?” he said, not really answering.
“Good question. Color me curious. And all the more determined to convince you to ask Lucy out on a date.”
“For the life of me, I can’t figure out what your stake is in my personal life.”
“That’s because you don’t understand the fundamental dynamics of female friendship.”
“Enlighten me.”
“Communication and sharing,” she said. “I’m curious about the man behind the tabloid headlines. Lucy could find out so much if you’d take her out to dinner. And she would tell me everything.”
“Since you’re the inquiring mind who wants to know, why don’t I cut out the middleman—or woman—and just take you out to dinner.”
“Really?” She stared at him. “A widow with a small child?”
“Neither of those things means you can’t go out with me. You may have heard. There are these handy-dandy people called babysitters.”
That would only address the problem of what to do with Danielle when Maggie went out. She would still be a widow. But she had one irrefutable argument left.
“Look, Sloan, we both know I’m not the type of woman you go out with. In fact, just the opposite. I’m a businesswoman and mother.”
“True.” His eyes narrowed on her. “But what if this is a conscious choice on my part to date a woman who is the polar opposite of my usual type? And I’ve simply used the tabloids and their stories to throw everyone off my real purpose? A deflection.”
“You don’t mean you’re actually interested in someone like me?”
“Don’t I?”
Maggie had thought she had the upper hand in this verbal give-and-take. That she had him on the run. But his response stopped her cold. Of course, he was teasing. He had to be.
“Like I said—quantity over commitment. When would you have the time to troll for an ordinary woman?”
“You’d be surprised.”
“We’re talking about you,” she said. “Nothing would surprise me.”
“I’ll take that as a challenge, Maggie Potter.”
“If you’re planning a campaign just to surprise me, I’d have to say that you have way too much time on your hands.”
“Would it surprise you to know that I would really just like to get to know you?”
“Now you’re simply trying to get a rise out of me. It’s not going to work.”
“We’ll just have to wait and see.” He studied her, and the intensity was disconcerting. “But I sense you pushing me away and can’t help wondering about it. You don’t go out, do you? Why is that? Why do you keep to yourself? Is there a reason you won’t let yourself be happy?”
“I have priorities,” she said. “And how do you know I don’t go out? I’m perfectly capable of being happy. In fact, I am very happy.”
And defensive, she realized. Pride went before a fall and it was a long way down when she’d thought she had him right where she wanted him.
Note to self, she thought. Never underestimate this man.
“I love my daughter more than life itself, but I feel crushing shame for leaving her with my mom and enjoying myself with you guys.”
Maggie was sitting at a bistro table in Bar None, Blackwater Lake’s local drinking establishment, with her friends April Kennedy and Delanie Carlson. The latter had inherited the place from her dad, who had died the previous year.
“What you’re experiencing is a curious phenomenon. It even has a name. Mom guilt,” Delanie said.
She was another woman who made men turn into mindless idiots just by walking into a room. A blue-eyed redhead, she had just the right curves to fill out a pair of jeans. It was a weeknight and traditionally slow at Bar None, which made it ideal for their weekly evening out.
“I remember my mom saying the same thing.” April tossed a strand of sun-streaked brown hair over her shoulder as a bittersweet expression slid into her hazel eyes. “She couldn’t wait to get time to herself, but when it happened she missed me like crazy. I still miss her a lot.”
“So it is a mom thing.” Maggie took a sip of chardonnay, then looked at April, who had lost her mother to breast cancer. “And what you just said gives me hope and inspiration.”
“How?”
“You were raised by a single mom. No dad in the picture. And you turned out okay. A successful businesswoman with your photography shop on Main Street.”
“If I say I think my mother did a great job with me, does that sound conceited?”
“Of course not,” Delanie answered. “It’s just the truth.”
Maggie looked forward to this night out with her friends. She’d cooked dinner for her boarders and Josie had agreed to get it on the table for Sloan. Whenever he was around, Maggie was jittery and nervous, so it was a relief to have an evening off.
“And what about you, Dee?” she asked. “How are you doing since your dad passed away? I know you two were close.”
“I miss him.” Delanie looked around the place she now owned.
The interior reflected the Montana pioneer spirit—rugged and rustic. Overhead, dark beams ran the length of the ceiling and the still-original floor was fashioned from wood planks. Lantern-shaped lights illuminated the booths lining the exterior and bistro tables scattered throughout. A rectangular oak bar with a brass foot rail dominated the center of the room, and pictures of the earliest Blackwater Lake settlers with shovels, axes and covered wagons hung on the walls.
Delanie glanced at her friends. “This may sound corny, but I can feel him here. Sort of a presence. It’s comforting.”
“That’s good.” Maggie envied her friend. She’d never experienced comfort or felt Danny’s presence in the house he’d built for her. And when she looked at the daughter they’d made, sometimes she felt a guilt that had nothing to do with being a good mom and everything to do with a wife who’d let her husband down. He’d never had a chance to see his child.
“Okay, ladies,” Dee said. “This conversation has taken a dark and twisty turn. I took the night off and am paying Savannah to pour drinks
