His Mother's Wedding

“You know,” Colette said again, “you’re going to love Rico.”

“I hope so,” Molly responded. “But there’s something you need to understand. I’m open to meeting eligible bachelors, but I’m pretty fussy.”

“And you should be.”

Molly had to agree. She’d had a lousy example of home and family during the first twelve years of her life and she wasn’t about to let history repeat itself. But she’d seen the best and worst of families.

Some people might not understand how a young woman with a lousy early childhood like Molly’s could grow up and not become jaded and bitter.

Well, that was easy. Molly had Don and Barbara Townsend to thank for that.

Her foster parents had taught her that things always worked out for the best. That heroes like the Townsends existed. That love prevailed. And that—somewhere—her soul mate waited.

Colette patted Molly’s knee with a light touch of the hand. “Well, picky or not, you’re going to like my son.” Then she led softly. “I know what you’re probably thinking—every old crow thinks her baby’s white as snow. But Rico is about the most handsome man who ever walked the face of the earth.”

As far as Molly was concerned, a man’s physical appearance wasn’t anywhere near as important as his character. And she’d put plenty of thought into that conclusion.

In her heart she knew that she was looking for a guy who was a lot like Don Townsend, a man in touch with his feelings and understanding of hers. In many ways the sweet, slightly stooped, balding man had become a template for her dream mate.

Of course, when she allowed her fantasies to take flight, her future husband had a keen resemblance to Brad Pitt.

As the roar of a high-performance engine grew near, Colette placed her teacup and saucer on the glass-topped coffee table and stood. “Oh, good. He’s here.”

She’d recognized her son’s vehicle?

Not that it mattered, but it sounded like some kind of race car.

All right, so Molly had failed to consider the style of vehicle Mr. Right ought to drive. But she couldn’t imagine Don Townsend racing through town in a Porsche or a Ferrari.

“Will you excuse me for a minute?” Colette asked as she approached the front door.

“Sure.” Molly brushed her palms across the black knit fabric of her simple but classic A-line dress.

Hope might spring eternal, but something told her Rico wouldn’t be her type, no matter what his mother had said. His job as a private investigator in itself sent up a red flag.

She wanted someone with a nine-to-five job, a man who would spend time with his family in the evenings and on weekends. And she doubted Colette’s son would ever be home.

His car sent up another flag.

What kind was it? The revved-up sound of the engine suggested speed and flash. A risk taker. An attention seeker.

A real turnoff, if you asked her.

But Molly was open-minded. Well, skeptical but unbiased. So she’d have to meet the man first.

As Colette went outside to greet her son, Molly couldn’t quell a growing curiosity. So she made her way to the big bay window that looked out into the suburban tree-lined street and stood to the side, hidden behind the pale, cream-colored panel curtains.

Outside, a vintage Corvette, completely restored and as black as night, sat curbside behind her faded blue Toyota.

She continued to stare as a tall, dark-haired man climbed from the classic sports car, wearing a pair of sunglasses and a devilish smile.

He walked around his vehicle and stepped onto the sidewalk, dressed casually in a pair of black slacks and a white shirt with the sleeves rolled up. Everything about him shouted out Flirt. Player.

Yet a flurry of butterflies swept through Molly’s tummy, and her heart slipped into a zippity-do-dah beat.

How crazy was that?

Especially when she’d never been attracted to the tall, dark and aren’t-I-gorgeous type.

She could tell right now that she’d never want to become romantically involved with Rico Garcia.

But for some dumb reason, her hormones didn’t seem to be listening.

Chapter Two

At just after five o’clock Rico arrived at his mom’s house—a small, two-bedroom tract home on a quiet street in Westlake Falls.

Three years ago, when the first phase of the development had been released, he’d surprised her by purchasing her a new house. She’d gotten over her shock and quickly set about hanging pictures and making it her own.

She’d not only decorated the inside but had done a great job with the landscape, too. The wood-and-wrought-iron bench on the lawn had been added since the last time he’d come to visit, and so had the concrete garden figurine—an angel, no doubt. Or maybe it was a cupid.

For as along as Rico could remember, his mom had had a talent for making a run-down shack feel like home.

Each time she moved into a place, she left her mark by setting a glass bowl of potpourri on the coffee table, framed photographs on the mantel, a vanilla-scented candle on the counter and other things like that. And if she knew Rico was stopping by, there would always be something cooking on the stove or baking in the oven.

He admired that about her, the ability to provide him a place where he could temporarily slip off his cloak of cynicism and hang it by the door.

Of course, this time he wouldn’t be removing his “outerwear.” He was going to need it to check out the new man in her life, to make sure his mom would be treated well—that she’d be appreciated, respected.

To him, that was a hell of a lot more important than being in love with her soul mate.

As Rico slowed in front of the house, he saw that his mom had parked her Ford Taurus at a diagonal, taking up the entire driveway. So he pulled his Corvette along the curb, behind a blue Toyota Corolla that had seen better years.

He sure hoped the Toyota didn’t belong to Dr. Osterhout. If his mom was going to get married again, he wanted her husband to be able to support her in the manner she deserved. And he’d feel better if the dentist drove a late-model Mercedes or Lincoln.

His preliminary investigation showed the guy to be on the up-and-up. But Rico still wasn’t convinced. When it came to choosing men, at least the last couple of times, his mom’s track record had been lousy.

Rico got out of his car and took another look at the Toyota. An artificial red rose was attached to the antenna with a ribbon, suggesting the driver couldn’t always remember where he or she parked. The rear bumper had a few dings, not to mention a dented New York license plate. Dang. Maybe his car would be safer if he parked across the street.

“Hello, honey.” His mom, dressed in black slacks and a lightweight gray sweater, stepped onto the front porch and met him in the driveway with a warm hug.

He inhaled the familiar scent of gardenias, a fragrance that belonged only to her.

“How was your drive?” she asked as she led him into the small white house.

“It wasn’t bad.” He nodded over his shoulder, toward the Toyota. “Whose car?”

“It’s Molly’s. I’ll introduce you.”