life.”
“We’re not talking about sex,” Jerry felt it necessary to point out, though the lack of women was the one of the biggest drawbacks to living in rural Montana. “We’re talking about attracting single women to our town. We’re talking about publicity, about attracting businesses, about letting people know we live in a beautiful part of the country where people care about one another. We’re talking about expanding the population, saving the school, making Willing a great place to raise a family again.”
“Quite a speech, Jerry. You’re starting to sound like a politician,” Hank said, chuckling. “You’re not running for governor, are you, son?”
“Not yet,” Jerry said. “Now, do any of you have any objections to getting married?”
“Well,” Hank drawled, “I did it once.”
“And?” Jerry prompted.
“It sure beat being alone.”
Not exactly high praise. Jerry fought the urge to bang his forehead on the table. Instead he gave each man a long look. “You’re all lonely and miserable and you know well enough that if a woman gave you as much as a nod you’d be signing a marriage license and following her around the IGA with a grocery cart.”
No one denied it, so Jerry figured they’d all just voted yes. Yes to inviting Hollywood to Willing. Yes to encouraging a busload of single women to give Montana bachelors a chance to impress them. Yes to drumming up a little excitement for a change.
Speaking of excitement, Jerry looked down the length of the crowded room and waved to Meg. She picked up a carafe and made her way toward his table. As far as Jerry was concerned, Meg Ripley was an important person. She knew everyone in town and he had no doubt she could run against him for mayor and win in a landslide. He’d been told she was thirtyish, single and straight, so Jerry had asked her out to dinner a month after he’d moved to town. They’d quickly become friends, though Meg politely refused any dates that could be construed as romantic.
He actually preferred blondes, but dark-haired Meg was attractive in a no-frills, low-maintenance way. He’d never seen her in anything but jeans, but she had a cute figure and a nice smile. In a town overpopulated by men, she mysteriously remained single, though he’d heard plenty of stories about broken hearts. As far as he could tell, Meg kept to herself and didn’t go out of her way to break anything.
“Meg,” he began, “how many times have you been proposed to?”
“I really don’t think—”
“Seriously,” Jerry said. “It’s important.”
She took a step back. “I’m not going to—”
“Eighteen,” Jack declared. “Last time we did a count, it was eighteen.”
“You’ve kept count?” Meg shot him a horrified look and Jack shrank back into his chair.
“It’s posted at the Dahl,” Hank pointed out. “It’s not like it’s a secret or anything.”
“P-posted?” Meg sputtered. “I never saw it.”
“Men’s room.” Les whispered to Jerry, “Lucia Swallow’s up to eight and Patsy—you know, Patsy Parrish at the Hair Lair—she has seven.” These were interesting statistics, but Jerry needed Meg involved in his scheme and these numbers weren’t going to make that happen.
“Eighteen proposals of marriage,” he mused. “I’m impressed.”
“Don’t be,” she said. “I’m not.” She set down the full pot and removed the empty one. “Every once in a while someone has too much to drink, waves roses in front of me and wants to get married. And don’t get me started on Valentine’s Day.”
“There,” he said, slapping his hand on the table. “You’ve proved my point exactly. Do you all see now how unbalanced and crazy this is?”
“Crazy? You think it’s crazy that someone would want to marry me?” The look she gave him practically shriveled his manhood.
The council members sucked in their collective breaths. Jerry realized he was flying too close to the flame now, and any minute Meg would toss them all out of the restaurant, meeting adjourned. She wasn’t a fan of personal questions and she didn’t take kindly to discussing her love life, not that anyone thought she had one. He’d know if Meg had a boyfriend, probably because the news would make the front page of the local paper. Or at least the men’s room of the Dahl.
For one agonizing moment Jerry feared she would fling the empty coffeepot across the room. He’d heard there was a temper beneath the cheerful smile, but up until now he hadn’t believed it. He pulled out a chair and gestured toward it. “Look, Meg, I’m sorry. That’s not quite what I meant. Join us for a minute, will you?” He kept his voice soft, used the persuasive tone he’d spent so much time cultivating. “We need your help.”
She edged away. “No, thanks. I have breakfast orders—”
He wasn’t about to let her off the hook. He needed a female perspective and he needed it now. And he didn’t care if it came from an overly sensitive woman who had a bad attitude or a bad boyfriend or just disliked men. “Meg. Please. Just tell me, what do women want? You know, from men. We need to know.”
“Excuse me?” The question obviously surprised her, because she paused in midflight and stared at him.
“I’m serious,” he repeated, his pen poised. “Tell me what women want. It’s important. I’ll take notes.”
“Jerry,” she said, backing up. “You don’t have a big enough piece of paper.”
CHAPTER TWO
OWEN PAID NO attention to the yammering of the town council until Meg approached their table and got all huffy. Then, his attention caught by the curious discussion going on behind him, he overheard Jerry’s question and the laughter from Meg’s reply.
She’d been proposed to eighteen times? The official count was more likely to be nineteen, because Owen doubted that their teenage romance was public knowledge, so his own proposal wouldn’t be on the list. Had every man in town tried to hook up with her these past years? Now, that was an unpleasant thought. No wonder Meg was kind of prickly about the subject. That kind of attention would embarrass her—or at least would have embarrassed the shy girl he’d once known.
He watched Meg—who, surprisingly, had acted as if they were nothing more than acquaintances, which he supposed was exactly what he’d hoped for—hurry to the counter, where a couple of old guys waited to pay their bills. She looked good in those jeans. And kinda cute in the red-checked apron, too, so he couldn’t really blame the local guys for trying.
“Mr. MacGregor? I don’t think we’ve met.” Owen turned to see the redheaded man standing next to his booth and holding out his hand toward him. “Jerry Thompson. Mayor.”
“So you’re the brave man who wants to know what women want? Nice to meet you.” Owen stood and shook the hand offered to him, which prompted a flurry of greetings from the others at the table. There were condolences about his uncle, surprise that Owen was still in town and introductions made to the younger men
