Theo laughed out loud. “They don’t think you’re pitiful, girl. They think you’re crazy. You just passed up the chance to marry about twenty million bucks. Which, as we all know, you could definitely use.”
“But I didn’t love him. And he didn’t love me, not really.”
“Yeah, I know. But most of the folks around here don’t see what love’s got to do with twenty million dollars.”
Natalie sighed and gathered two baskets in each hand, shoving the hatchback shut with her elbow.
“Well, if they don’t know, I can’t explain it to them.” She nodded toward the café. “Let’s get these inside. Your customers are probably wondering where you are.”
When she climbed the first step, though, she realized that Theo was lagging behind. “Come on, Theo.” Her sunglasses were crawling down on her nose. She tilted her head back, trying to make them slide into place. She couldn’t stand the nuclear glare of the sun. “These plants are kind of heavy, you know.”
“I know. But before we go in, I probably should tell you—”
“What?”
“We’ve got a new customer. New in town, I mean. Good-looking guy. He’s in there now.”
Natalie groaned. Theo was the Glen’s most energetic matchmaker. “Theo, I’m not in the market for a new man yet. Especially not today. Look at me. My jeans are dirty, my head is splitting, and I’m about one wrong move from either puking or fainting. I don’t care how handsome he is. Please, please, please don’t introduce me to him.”
Theo looked strangely tongue-tied—a first for the crusty old woman. She fiddled with the ferns, untangling a couple of soft fronds, not looking at Natalie.
“I don’t think I have to,” she said. “I think you’ve already met him.”
“I have?” Natalie glanced toward the glossy red door, which was flanked by tubs full of bright yellow marigolds supplied by Natalie’s own nursery. “When?”
Theo looked up. “Well…tell me, girl. How much do you actually remember about yesterday?”
“I—” Natalie started. “I remember everything,” she whispered.
“Everything?”
“Every embarrassing minute of it. Up to and including—” She swallowed. “Oh, no.”
Theo nodded sympathetically. “Oh, yes. Up to and including the handsome Matthew Quinn.”
TEN MINUTES LATER, Natalie was still trying to calm herself down with a mental barrage of reassurances.
It wasn’t really such a disaster, was it? Actually, this made her day a whole lot easier. She had planned to try to track Matthew Quinn down sometime this afternoon anyhow.
It was just that she had hoped to wait a few hours, until her eyes weren’t quite so bloodshot. She had wanted one more shower, to banish any lingering whiff of stale liquor…or worse.
She had planned to put on her navy-blue suit, and panty hose, and maybe even makeup. She had intended to tightly French-braid her unruly hair. She had desperately wanted to look professional, sober and sane—well, as sane as any Granville ever could.
Instead, she was going to have to meet him like this. In her working jeans, with her head made of glass and her stomach made of Slinky springs.
Oh heck. Maybe it was for the best. This was how she really looked. If she couldn’t persuade Matthew Quinn to help her without the aid of a suit and panty hose, maybe he wasn’t the perfect man after all.
He was sitting in the back, reading the newspaper. Probably looking at the classified ads, she thought. Hunting for a job, no doubt, now that he’d decided he didn’t want the one she was offering.
She continued hanging the ferns on the hooks above the front windows. She tried not to look at him too much—it would be bad for her concentration. But she was relieved to see that he looked the same, even now that she wasn’t viewing him through the rosy fumes of an entire bottle of Jack Daniel’s.
He was very tall, well over six feet. Maybe a touch too thin, as if no one fed him right, but still pleasantly powerful, especially those broad, squared-off shoulders.
Healthy, thick brown hair, with a touch of wave that he didn’t bother to subdue. She’d be willing to bet he didn’t own a single can of mousse or hair spray. Call her old fashioned, but she hated a guy who used more hair products than she did. Which, in her case, amounted to one generic brand of combination shampoo and conditioner and a brush. Serious vanity required more time—and more money—than she could spare.
She couldn’t see his eyes from here. But she remembered them. Hazel eyes, with dark, thick lashes. Gorgeous eyes, but more than that. Smart eyes. And best of all, kind eyes.
She didn’t pay much attention to men’s clothes—or women’s either, for that matter—but she sensed that he hadn’t spent a lot of money on his jeans and plain white cotton shirt. Some of the pinup boys around here could take lessons. They spent obscene amounts on their designer outfits, and they didn’t look half as good as Matthew Quinn.
Of course he had the advantage of being naturally sexy as all get-out. She had dreamed about him off and on last night, and, with the whiskey pretty much acting like chloroform on her inhibitions, it had been a fairly X-rated evening.
Not that she’d ever in a million years tell him about that. It would scare him off for sure. And she didn’t intend to act on her fantasies. She was looking for a handyman, not a boyfriend. It was only important because it proved that he truly was special. She didn’t have X-rated dreams very often, which she now realized was rather a shame.
At that moment he glanced up. He seemed to be looking for a waitress, but, even though she was high on a chair hanging the last fern, he spotted her.
For a few long seconds he waited, as if he weren’t sure whether it was polite to admit yesterday had ever happened. So, to put the question to rest, she smiled. And then, slowly, he smiled back.
Gosh. She nearly fell off her chair when her knees threatened to go soft on her. She didn’t want to act like a gushing teenage groupie or anything, but he had a wonderful, summery smile. It was full of sunlight and warmth.
Oh, yes. Drunk or not, her instincts had been so right yesterday. This man was special. He was perfect.
And she wasn’t leaving the Candlelight Café until he agreed to come and work for her.
She climbed down carefully, whisking debris from the front of her jeans. She swiped at her hair, hoping she could dislodge any small green flecks of fern from her curls. And then she made her way to his table.
“Hi,” she said, suddenly aware that every woman should have her own personal scriptwriter. There must be something witty and sophisticated she could say to sweep them past this awkward moment. But her mind remained a stubborn, gawky blank. “How are you?”
“Great,” he said, still smiling. He put the newspaper politely down, giving her his full attention. “How about you?”
He
