One Plus One Makes Marriage

“Isn’t this violating some code of yours?” she asked, watching him.

“There’s nothing wrong with leaving them in the middle of the storeroom,” Lance said tersely.

“I mean helping me.” Her question went unanswered as Lance returned to the showroom to get the remaining stack of crates. Rather than follow him, she waited until he returned.

He wasn’t very talkative, Melanie thought. Not like John Kelly, who enjoyed having an audience and reminiscing about his early days with the fire department.

Melanie watched, with a deep appreciation of the male body, as Lance worked the second and last stack of boxes free of the dolly. He had biceps as hard as rocks, she noted. He also had a deep, long scar running along one of them that became an angry red as he strained. It was too fresh looking to be very old.

She waited until he finished. “Now why wouldn’t you let me do that in the first place?”

He had a question of his own. Why couldn’t she just accept what he’d done without subjecting it to scrutiny? Annoyed with himself for bothering to help, Lance shoved the dolly away. Unsteady, the dolly tottered like a drunk, then finally clattered to the floor.

“Because that would be favoritism.” His eyes narrowed as he looked at her. “I don’t believe in favoritism.”

She could accept that, she thought as she picked up the dolly and righted it. “But you do believe in being helpful.”

“Not particularly.” Without bothering to look at her, Lance took down the highest crate and set it on the floor. One at a time, they weren’t so bad. For him, he thought. She would have had a hard time of it. It didn’t occur to him to wonder what she normally did when a shipment came in. That wasn’t his concern.

Neither was this, he upbraided himself, taking down another crate and setting it beside the first.

“You came back to help me,” she pointed out. Melanie caught her breath as he swung down a crate from the second stack. “Careful, that one’s fragile.”

So was she, he thought absently. As fragile looking as the china dolls his aunt kept on display. Setting the box down gently, he realized that was what had teased his mind before. Her store. It was along the same lines of his aunt’s dining room. The same kind of furniture. The same subdued scent of vanilla and polish. Maybe that was what had prompted him to help, he thought. That sense of familiarity.

But she didn’t need to know any of that. Lance shrugged. “I saw your reflection in the glass door. You looked as if you thought you could tackle this on your own.”

It was obvious he thought she was crazy for thinking that. “I could.” She waited a beat, then added, “Given time.” For his benefit, she flexed a muscle the way weight lifters did and almost succeeded in getting the smile she was after. “I have strong peasant blood running through my veins.”

“More like running over your floor if you’re not careful. If you get these deliveries in regularly, you should hire yourself a stockboy.” He put the last box down on the floor. “Preferably a strong one.” He dusted off his hands. “There.” Now his conscience was clear, though why it shouldn’t have been in the first place still wasn’t entirely apparent to him. Lance rolled down his sleeves as he walked out of the storeroom. “See about getting the other violations corrected. And don’t be late paying the fine,” he warned her.

“Yes, sir.”

Lance was certain McCloud was mocking him as she saluted. The dimple in her cheek didn’t help his concentration any, either.

On impulse, Melanie looked around before she spied what she was after. “Perfect,” she declared, hurrying away.

Lance had no idea what she was talking about, nor did he care. All he wanted to do was leave before she found something else for him to move, push or carry. But she caught up to him before he could make it halfway across the shop. For a small thing, she moved fast.

“Here.” She held out what looked like a tiny figurine of a dalmatian wearing a fireman’s hat at a jaunty angle, offering it to him.

Lance just stared at it. Now what was she up to? “What’s that?”

“It’s a dalmatian.” How could he not recognize it? Melanie held it up so he could get a better look. “You’re part of the fire department, right? I thought it was appropriate.”

The smile on her lips seemed to seep into him, like an ink stain, he thought grudgingly. He made no move to accept the gift, not because it could be construed as a bribe, but because he didn’t want anything from her.

“I just wanted to say thank you for helping.” It was one of her favorite pieces. Impulse had her wanting to give it to him. “It’s for luck.”

Lance’s eyes frosted. Luck. The most highly overrated thing in the world. Where had the old woman’s luck been, when he hadn’t been able to reach her in time? When she’d died hearing him try to save her?

“I don’t believe in luck.”

Melanie blinked as he turned from her. She felt as if she’d physically been pushed away. For a second she didn’t know what to say. Then she saw his jacket was still on the armchair. She snatched it up and hurried after him.

“Wait.”

When he turned around, he found that she’d caught up to him again. She was holding out his jacket. Annoyed at forgetting it, he took the jacket from her and shrugged into it. She was still clutching the ridiculous dog.

Melanie tugged at his sleeve, brushing it off with her other hand. “Lint,” she explained, when he looked at her quizzically, pulling away his arm. “Wouldn’t want you getting dusty on my account.”

Why did her eyes look as if she was enjoying some sort of secret amusement? Lance wondered. And why should he care what she was enjoying, or what she was even thinking, for that matter?

He didn’t, he reminded himself. “Just pay the fine,” was all he said as he walked out.

In the middle of ringing up a sale, Joy excused herself for a moment and went to Melanie.

“Why did you slip that dalmatian into his pocket?” she wanted to know. Melanie had told her more than once that the piece was not for sale, merely for display. “He said he didn’t want it.”

Melanie looked at her innocently, though a smile played on her lips. “What makes you think I slipped anything into his pocket?”

“Open your hand,” Joy instructed. When Melanie did, it was empty. Joy just shook her head. “I don’t think he’s the kind of guy who’d enjoy having you practice your sleight of hand on him. He doesn’t strike me as the type who likes magic.”

“He might not like it,” Melanie agreed, looking toward the doorway. “But he’s the type who definitely looks as if he needs a little magic in his life.”

“Oh, miss...”

Joy flashed an apologetic smile at her customer and hurried back to the register. “You’d think that just being here, selling these things would be enough magic,” she said to Melanie. She knew what Melanie was about. There were times when her best friend’s heart was just too big for her own good.

One of the other customers beckoned to her. Melanie nodded and went to the woman. “There’s never enough magic in the world,” Melanie told Joy softly in reply.

Joy merely sighed. There was no arguing with Melanie when she was like this.

His first reaction, when he put his hand into his pocket feeling for his keys and found the figurine, was to turn around and give the damn dog back to her. But that would mean returning to the shop—and to her. And he was reluctant to do that. Lance didn’t like facing things he didn’t understand unless he was in some way prepared to tackle them. He didn’t understand Melanie McCloud or the abject friendliness she seemed so willing to tender. Everyone had a motive, a secret agenda they tried to adhere to. What was hers?

Until he figured it out, he didn’t see himself going back there to face that supposedly guileless smile and those blue eyes that looked as if they were fathoms deep.

So he’d kept the tiny symbol of a life that wasn’t really a part of him any longer. Kept it until he came into his office and tossed it on his desk where it promptly disappeared into the piles of reports that he had temporarily inherited from Kelly.

He found the figurine again the next day, not that he was looking for it. What he was looking for was the report on the Logan warehouse, a place that had burned down to the ground after being inspected thoroughly only the month before. Supposedly, the fire had been an accident. He still had his doubts about that.

Just as he’d had his doubts about the woman who’d somehow managed to sneak this into his pocket when he’d specifically refused it.

Muttering under his breath, Lance studied the small, foolishly grinning dog. Waste of china, he thought, turning it around in his hand.

The scent of vanilla nudged its way into the cluttered room that usually smelled of sweat and stale air, teasing his senses. Reminding him of her and those improbable dimples that beguiled him.

She was here, he realized. In the station. In his office.