inept skills with makeup would make a difference. The best she could do was run a brush through her fine hair to fluff it a bit. Then she chastised herself.
It wasn’t as if this was a date.
That…thing…that had sprung up between her and Porter Armstrong earlier, that thick, palpable pressure hanging in the air after she’d made the comment that he should be in bed…it hadn’t been sexual tension. It couldn’t have been. The more likely explanation was…humidity.
That was it—she simply wasn’t used to the barometric pressure at this altitude.
And she had agreed to accompany Porter Armstrong to the barbecue simply because the irreverent man needed to be monitored over the next several hours in case he developed complications from his fall.
Her stomach growled.
And because she was famished.
She retraced her steps to the stairs and ignored the little jump in her pulse at the sight of Porter Armstrong waiting for her. The man was ridiculously handsome, and she knew when she was out of her league. But she was only going to be in Sweetness, Georgia, for a few more hours, and there were worse ways to spend it than on the arm of a good-looking man, even if he’d only extended the invitation out of…
Nikki frowned. Why had he extended the invitation?
He smiled and, if possible, grew even more handsome.
The reason didn’t matter, she told herself as she walked downstairs. She could pretend over the next few hours that he saw something in her no other man had ever seen. Sweetness owed her a fantasy evening.
“Ready?” he asked.
“Ready,” she said.
Porter was grateful the weather was holding. “Doc” Riley had announced all week that his forecasting bunions were hurting, which meant rain was on the way. But the last thing the Armstrongs wanted was for their guests to see the ugly mud hole this place turned into when driving rain met bare red clay.
He was aware of the small woman walking next to him, and tried to imagine what this place looked like through her eyes. It was a glorious Southern night, steeped with the scent of freshly mowed grass and the hum of insects.
Dr. Salinger sneezed violently, then smacked at something on her neck.
He winced. Maybe it wasn’t so glorious if you were allergic to freshly mowed grass and attracted mosquitoes. “God bless you.” He stopped and balanced himself to fish a clean handkerchief from his back pocket, then handed it to her.
“Thank you,” she said, giving her nose a wipe. “Why do Southerners say that?”
“Say what?”
“‘God bless you’ after someone sneezes.”
He laughed. “Is that a Southern thing?” Then he shrugged. “I never thought about it. Didn’t mean to offend.”
“You didn’t offend me. I just think it’s curious how different people are, and how different the customs are in different parts of the country.”
She sounded so clinical, as if she were conducting a study. Little lady doc sounded…lonely. “Do you have family back in Broadway?”
“No.”
“Another part of the country?”
“No.”
An orphan. “I’m sorry.”
“It’s not your fault,” she murmured. “I was an only child. My father passed away when I was very young, and my mother died when I was in high school. But I was loved.”
Loved. Past tense. Porter’s chest tightened. And she’d pulled herself through college and medical school—impressive. “As much as my brothers and I butt heads, I couldn’t imagine a world without them in it.”
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