window.
“Now I can tell my grandchildren I spilled your lunch all over the pavement at the Dixie Dog Drive-In, and here’s my proof.” Mandy beamed, waggling the chocolate-stained napkin.
“Just imagine,” Brad said. The slight irony in his tone was wasted on Mandy, which was probably a good thing.
“I won’t tell anybody I saw you until you drive away,” Mandy said with eager resolve. “I think I can last that long.”
“That would be good,” Brad told her.
She turned and whizzed back toward the side entrance to the Dixie Dog.
Brad waited, marveling that he hadn’t considered incidents like this one before he’d decided to come back home. In retrospect, it seemed shortsighted, to say the least, but the truth was, he’d expected to be—Brad O’Ballivan.
Presently, Mandy skated back out again, and this time, she managed to hold on to the tray.
“I didn’t tell a soul!” she whispered. “But Heather and Darlene both asked me why my mascara was all smeared.” Efficiently, she hooked the tray onto the bottom edge of the window.
Brad extended payment, but Mandy shook her head.
“The boss said it’s on the house, since I dumped your first order on the ground.”
He smiled. “Okay, then. Thanks.”
Mandy retreated, and Brad was just reaching for the food when a bright red Blazer whipped into the space beside his. The driver’s-side door sprang open, crashing into the metal speaker, and somebody got out, in a hurry.
Something quickened inside Brad.
And in the next moment, Meg McKettrick was standing practically on his running board, her blue eyes blazing.
Brad grinned. “I guess you’re not over me after all,” he said.
Chapter Two
After Sierra had opened all her shower presents, and cake and punch had been served, Meg had felt the old, familiar tug in the middle of her solar plexus and headed straight for the Dixie Dog Drive-In. Now that she was there, standing next to a truck and all but nose to nose with Brad O’Ballivan through the open window, she didn’t know what to do—or say.
Angus poked her from behind, and she flinched.
“Speak up,” her dead ancestor prodded.
“Stay out of this,” she answered, without thinking.
Puzzlement showed in Brad’s affably handsome face. “Huh?”
“Never mind,” Meg said. She took a step back, straightened. “And I am so over you.”
Brad grinned. “Damned if it didn’t work,” he marveled. He climbed out of the truck to stand facing Meg, ducking around the tray hooked to the door. His dark-blond hair was artfully rumpled, and his clothes were downright ordinary.
“What worked?” Meg demanded, even though she knew.
Laughter sparked in his blue-green eyes, along with considerable pain, and he didn’t bother to comment.
“What are you doing here?” she asked.
Brad spread his hands. Hands that had once played Meg’s body as skillfully as any guitar. Oh, yes. Brad O’Ballivan knew how to set all the chords vibrating.
“Free country,” he said. “Or has Indian Rock finally seceded from the Union with the ranch house on the Triple M for a capitol?”
Since she felt a strong urge to bolt for the Blazer and lay rubber getting out of the Dixie Dog’s parking lot, Meg planted her feet and hoisted her chin. McKettricks, she reminded herself silently, don’t run.
“I heard you were in rehab,” she said, hoping to get under his hide.
“That’s a nasty rumor,” Brad replied cheerfully.
“How about the two ex-wives and that scandal with the actress?”
His grin, insouciant in the first place, merely widened. “Unfortunately, I can’t deny the two ex-wives,” he said. “As for the actress—well, it all depends on whether you believe her version or mine. Have you been following my career, Meg McKettrick?”
Meg reddened.
“Tell him the truth,” Angus counseled. “You never forgot him.”
“No,” Meg said, addressing both Brad and Angus.
Brad looked unconvinced. He was probably just egotistical enough to think she logged onto his Web site regularly, bought all his CDs and read every tabloid article about him that she could get her hands on. Which she did, but that was not the point.
“You’re still the best-looking woman I’ve ever laid eyes on,” he said. “That hasn’t changed, anyhow.”
“I’m not a member of your fan club, O’Ballivan,” Meg informed him. “So hold the insincere flattery, okay?”
One corner of his mouth tilted upward in a half grin, but his eyes were sad. He glanced back toward the truck, then met Meg’s gaze again. “I don’t flatter anybody,” Brad said. Then he sighed. “I guess I’d better get back to Stone Creek.”
Something in his tone piqued Meg’s interest.
Who was she kidding?
Everything about him piqued her interest. As much as she didn’t want that to be true, it was.
“I was sorry to hear about Big John’s passing,” she said. She almost touched his arm, but managed to catch herself just short of it. If she laid a hand on Brad O’Ballivan, who knew what would happen?
“Thanks,” he replied.
A girl on roller skates wheeled out of the drive-in to collect the tray from the window edge of Brad’s truck, her cheeks pink with carefully restrained excitement. “I might have said something to Heather and Darleen,” the teenager confessed, after a curious glance at Meg. “About you being who you are and the autograph and everything.”
Brad muttered something.
The girl skated away.
“I’ve gotta go,” Brad told Meg, looking toward the drive-in. Numerous faces were pressed against the glass door; in another minute, there would probably be a stampede. “I don’t suppose we could have dinner together or something? Maybe tomorrow night? There are—well, there are some things I’d like to say to you.”
“Say yes,” Angus told her.
“I don’t think that would be a good idea,” Meg said.
“A drink, then? There’s a redneck bar in Stone Creek—”
“Don’t
