Hitched For The Holidays: Hitched For The Holidays / A Groom In Her Stocking

“My long end? You’ve lost me,” he said.

“The skinny end is hanging lower than the top. I don’t want to be picky, but it would look so nice if…”

He lifted the two ends of the tie and frowned.

“Here, let me,” she said, wishing she’d never mentioned it.

Her fingers were nimble, at least her mother used to say so. She loosened the knot and pulled gently until the full part of the tie hung the right way. Then she tightened the knot and tucked it between the tips of his collar.

“It’s an adorable—no, make that handsome—tie. I’ve never seen one like it.”

Of course, she never bought men’s ties unless a client sent her shopping. Her brother, Dwight, much preferred a book or a tape as a gift, and her father’s taste was so ultraconservative she’d accused him of buying his ties by the dozen, each identical to all the others he owned.

“My ex-fiancée was into cute,” he said dryly. ‘This is the first time I’ve worn it.”

“Oh.”

Talk about stepping into a pile of doo-doo. He would probably bribe a waiter to ring his pager ten minutes into the meal. At least her father was leaving Monday. She only had to get through two full days of his questions, and there were all kinds of reasons why a busy doctor couldn’t spend time with his “girlfriend” on the weekend.

“Well, it is a cute tie,” she said, hurrying round to the passenger side before he changed his mind about going.

The ride to the restaurant was the longest twenty-three minutes of her life.

What had made her try to reorganize Eric? Fussing with his tie was so intimate, so intrusive, so dumb. But she did like being close to him. He smelled of vanilla with a touch of spice, and she’d never noticed how sexy his lips were. Of course, she could think of a better use for that pucker than signaling his irritation.

“I’m sorry about the tie,” she said as they pulled up to the trendy steakhouse with a great view of the Camelback Mountains. “I fidget when I’m nervous.”

“No problem,” he said, opening his door and walking around the vehicle.

He helped her out of the car and handed his keys to the valet.

“It’s what I do for a living. Organize things. Closets, drawers, parties, you name it.”

“Yes, you told me during Peaches’s last visit.” He looked directly at her and smiled. “Don’t worry. This will go okay. Your father seems like a nice guy, not an ogre anyway.”

“Yeah, not an ogre,” she said hopefully, crossing her fingers where he couldn’t see them.

Mindy had never been to Mountain Monty’s, but it was one of those restaurants that made all the tourists’ guidebooks. She should have read one before making the reservation. The first rule of the steakhouse was no neckties. Her father had to surrender the bolo he imagined made him look like a native, and Eric handed over the doggie tie she’d straightened.

A scantily clad hostess dressed in abbreviated saloon-gal garb with a panty-level denim skirt and a vest covering not much of anything, put the ties in a plastic bag and promised their return.

“Mountain Monty can’t stand the sight of a noose, not even one with cute little doggies,” she said, giving Eric a smile so broad it nearly cracked her cheeks. “It’ll be about thirty minutes if y’all would like to wait in the lounge.”

So much for reservations, Mindy thought glumly as her father took on the job of host and ushered them into an area too dark for the old-west decor to be totally cloying.

“The evening’s on me,” Dad said expansively. “I’ve been looking forward to meeting you for a long time, Eric. Mindy’s told me a lot about you, all good.”

She’d told him zilch except for the part about being a doctor, but how could she begrudge her father a little exaggeration after telling him the whopper of her life?

“That’s good to hear.” Eric smiled warmly at her.

They settled down, really far down, on a low semi-circular couch in the corner with a tiny table. A server appeared instantly and took their orders: a beer for Dad, white wine for her and a club soda with lime for Eric. Was he going to play the sober doctor all evening, or didn’t he imbibe? She knew so little about him, this evening was going to be massively stressful.

“Tell me, Eric…” her dad began.

She was going to hate those words before the dinner was over unless, of course, her “date” bailed before the entrée.

“Are you a native of Phoenix?” Wayne asked.

“No, I’m an Iowa boy.” He said it with pride. “I came here a couple of years ago to set up my practice.”

“Guess it’s a good place for health practitioners. Aging population and all. I didn’t want Mindy to go to Arizona State when we visited out here. Plenty of good colleges in Pennsylvania. But she liked it well enough to stay. Now that I’m retired I’ll have time to check it out for myself.”

“If you don’t mind the hot summers, it’s great,” Eric said.

Great conversation, Mindy noted. Weather, the dullest and safest of subjects. She jumped in with a few anecdotes about melting makeup and sun-dried skin. Her stories tanked, but they helped kill time until they finally got called for dinner. What had seemed like two hours in the lounge had really been fourteen minutes. This was going to be one whopping long ordeal.

The Old West really came alive with a vengeance in the huge dining room. Long wooden tables for ten were covered with blue-and-white checked tablecloths. Customers sat on benches with thick log legs and no backs. It reminded Mindy of a family reunion with someone else’s relatives. At least the noisy group of six senior-plus citizens at the other end of their table reduced their conversation to spotty exchanges of menu information.

“How about it, honey,” Eric said, resting his hand on her shoulder. “I’ve heard their mesquite grilled steaks are the best. They have a porterhouse for two if you’re up for sharing.”

He massaged the back of her neck with his fingers, a deliciously intimate gesture that made her father look at the cowhide menu with a disapproving scowl. If Eric had acted too cool toward her, her dad would have criticized that later, too!

Eric dropped his hand when she squirmed but only to hide it under the table where, her father would assume, he could feel her up under cover of the blue-and-white cloth. Actually he kept a decorous inch or so between their thighs, resting his hand on his own, not hers.

Overhead the wooden ceiling looked smoky dark in contrast to the white plaster wall beneath it. A country band filed out to a small stage near the middle of the far wall, and a deep bass voice started moaning about the wicked woman who didn’t know how to love just one man. At least it kept conversation to a minimum.

They gave their orders to a jean-clad male server in a flannel shirt too hot for the room. After an eternity of shouting at each other across the table, their appetizers came and the band took a break.

They had salads topped by the house dressing, in bowls large enough to mix up a cake, and red wine spicy enough to make her hair stand on end. Her father sliced bread from a loaf of homemade sourdough and, when she was full enough to call it a night, the main course arrived.

The porterhouse for two was smothered in mushrooms, onions and a peppery sauce, cooked to a delicate pink and served with a baked potato on steroids. Her father had pork ribs and cowboy beans delivered in a brown ceramic pot large enough to plant a tree in it. The idea was, she supposed, to eat one meal here and take home enough leftovers for three or four more in handy foam cartons. At least she wouldn’t have to cook all weekend.

The seniors sharing their table finally left carrying enough leftovers to feed a football team, and she could sense her father’s relief. Now they could have a real chat and hear each other.

“You don’t know how happy I am to meet you, Eric,” he said in the tone of a magistrate reading a prisoner’s sentence. “I tell you, my little girl’s choice of friends has given me some anxious moments in the past.”

“Please, Dad, let Eric enjoy his dinner.”

“Oh, I’m enjoying it,” he said wickedly.

“Can you believe, when she was sixteen some guy came roaring up to the house on a motorcycle with Mindy on the back?”

“I was wearing a helmet,” she said dryly, giving up on the big slab of cow on her plate.

“They wanted to get matching his and hers tattoos. I was supposed to sign a permission slip because she was under eighteen. I told him he’d be getting his tattoo in the state pen if he didn’t get lost.”

“Pen” was her father’s idea of talking the talk. If she and Eric really were an item, she’d want to crawl under the table.