she agreed. “Thank you.”
“The weekend after that is Santa’s visit to the kids at BabyCare. That okay with you, Hannah?”
“Wonderful,” the woman sitting to Dana’s left answered. “And don’t forget the costume party for the kids at the day-care center the week before Halloween.”
The blond highlights in Hannah’s brown hair glowed beneath the town hall’s fluorescent lights. But that was nothing compared to the sparkle in her brown eyes. And that had everything to do with Jackson Caldwell, the love of her life, who was sitting beside her. Her face was so bright, she could have lit the town of Storkville for the entire holiday season, Halloween and Thanksgiving included.
Dana sighed. She envied them. They’d been childhood sweethearts who had recently been reunited and rekindled their love. Together they were caring for, and falling in love with, the twins abandoned at the day-care center a few days after she’d first met Quentin.
What would it be like, she wondered, to find a love that neither time nor adversity could kill? Her one and only experience with romance hadn’t shown her. And she wasn’t likely to get another chance—even if she wanted one. Her job hindered her from meeting unattached men. And then there was the issue of her three children. They would be enough to scare even the most intrepid man into a monastery. But she adored them and they came first.
“Mr. President?”
Dana would have known Quentin’s deep voice anywhere. She blushed, remembering how its timbre lowered a notch as he joked about dropping his pants right there on Main Street so that she could have them cleaned. Her heart beat faster at the image. He was pretty spectacular with his pants on and she suspected he was something of a religious experience with them off. Merely an objective observation. Her heart might be romantically challenged, but her eyesight was twenty-twenty, uncorrected.
“The floor recognizes Quentin McCormack.”
“I just want to remind everyone of the Halloween costume party at the McCormack estate on Saturday, October twenty-eighth. Invitations will go out in the next couple of days. But my parents and I would like you to put the date on the calendar. We’re hoping for a big turnout.”
“Got it down, Quentin. Anyone else?” Cleland scanned the room. Satisfied that no one else had anything to add, he banged his gavel. “Meeting adjourned. My mouth has been watering for some of Doris and Vern Feeney’s cherry pie. They were kind enough to bring some over from the diner.”
“I’ve brought some of my special lemonade,” Aunt Gertie piped up. In her late sixties, she was a petite, silver-haired woman with twinkling brown eyes and a magic brew “guaranteed” to help along prospective mothers trying to get pregnant.
A line formed beside the refreshment table. Dana didn’t even need to look to know who had stepped behind her. Quentin McCormack. The scent of his cologne was permanently embedded in her memory. He was close enough so that she could feel the heat of his body. And what a very tall body he had, she thought, her heart fluttering. Okay, so being romantically challenged didn’t preclude some involuntary spasms.
Dana poured herself coffee, then glanced at him. “Hello.”
Her knees went weak at his oh-so-attractive smile. She debated the pros and cons of turning completely around. On the one hand, not looking at him would be incredibly rude. On the other, if she faced him, she would have to deal with the full effects of Storkville’s sexiest man.
She took a deep breath and turned around.
“Hi,” he answered. “I see you’re avoiding Aunt Gertie’s lemonade,” he said, ladling some into his cup. “It’s made with Storkville springwater,” he added.
“So I’ve heard, along with the rumor about it causing pregnancy. But I see you’re not afraid.”
Grinning, he said, “For obvious reasons. But you shouldn’t be either. The last time I took biology, they were teaching that there’s only one time-honored way to produce a baby,” he said, his voice lowering with the suggestive comment. “And it doesn’t include storks or finding bundles under cabbage leaves.”
“I’m not taking any chances,” she said firmly.
“For three very good reasons.” He chuckled.
As she spooned sugar into her cup, she concentrated on controlling her shaking hands. He was a tycoon—Storkville’s answer to Donald Trump—according to teenage town gossip Penny Sue Lipton, who worked after school at the day-care center. Still, the man had been more than kind to her son, even after being on the business end of his cotton candy. Nine out of ten tycoons would have chewed Lukie up and spit him out, not asked him to call them Mr. Mac. However much she rationalized her reaction to him, she would be lying to herself if she didn’t admit that she found Quentin McCormack super-appealing.
With her coffee carefully cradled in both hands, she tried to inch away from the table, but she was trapped. People were behind her and one incredibly sexy tycoon blocked her from the front. She blew on the contents of her cup as she searched for an escape route, or failing that, something to say. “How are you?” she finally asked.
“Fine. And you?”
“Busy,” she answered automatically.
He studied her face. “You look tired.”
“Just distracted,” she said.
“If anyone else said that to me, I’d figure it was just small talk. In your case, you’ve got reasons times three why your focus is fragmented. How are the kids?”
“Great,” she said.
“Are they excited about the holidays coming?”
“That’s hard to say. They remember a little from last year. But it wasn’t a very happy time.” The expression on his handsome face was so kind and sympathetic she found herself telling him more. “Their father was in an automobile accident almost a year ago.”
“I’m sorry,” he said automatically.
“He was in a coma for a week before he died on Christmas Eve. It was a rough time for them. Their recollections are vague, thank goodness. I hope to replace those memories with happy ones this year.” But if her in-laws had their way, that wasn’t likely. She couldn’t suppress the shiver of apprehension that slithered through her.
“Is something wrong, Dana?” he asked.
“Nothing I can’t handle,” she answered.
Just then Cleland Knox, in line behind Dana, backed into her, knocking her forward. The sudden movement caused her to launch the contents of her cup. It arced onto the front of Quentin’s sport coat, the stark white shirt beneath, and the front of his pants.
Stunned, she stared open-mouthed at the liquid soaking into his shirt and dripping down his flat-as-a-washboard abdomen. “Oh, Quentin, I’m so sorry.”
Quickly, she grabbed the stack of napkins from the table beside her and began to blot him. At least the coffee had cooled and didn’t scald him. If only she could say the same for herself—she was hot and bothered. She tried to ignore her response to touching the abdomen she’d admired. But her stomach fluttered like a thousand butterflies in flight.
