The Chance

“Hey, I am not. I’m a good cook, too. Very good. In fact, I’ll be happy to cook for you....” He stopped and rubbed a hand around the back of his neck, embarrassed. “I’d have to borrow your kitchen, however.”

She laughed.

“I’ve been renovating and updating the station. From early in the morning to late at night...”

“You’re welcome to join us tonight, if you like. It’s just my friend Devon, her fiancé, her three-year-old and her friend, Rawley.”

“Thanks, that’s very nice, but I don’t want to intrude.” He put the phone back in his pocket. “I’ll probably run into you at the diner or something. Let me know if the car is unsatisfactory in any way.”

“Can I give you a lift back to the station?”

“Nah, I like the walk. Have a nice evening.”

He walked outside, into the brisk, moist air. He took a deep breath.

Not only had finding a woman been the last thing on his mind, but he also thought it made perfect sense to avoid such attachments in a little town like this, a town where he needed to make a living, needed to be respected by his friends and customers. He really couldn’t risk things like romantic drama. Plus, the only female who really had his attention was Ashley, his seventeen-year-old daughter. And he was making a real effort not to dominate her time—she was a high school senior and had better things to do. Besides, he needed little more than work, peace of mind, a little time with Ashley and an opportunity to watch her complete her growth into a fine young woman.

But then he noticed Laine. And damned if all those resolutions started to grow weak.

* * *

Laine had a very nice dinner with her friends. Spencer brought his son, Austin, a polite and funny ten-year-old. She got the biggest kick out of Rawley, who did very little talking, but was constantly finding things to point out to Mercy. He asked if she wanted her doll to sit at the table with them, prompted her to scrape up red sauce onto her garlic toast, asked if she had drawn any pictures of him lately and wanted to know what movies she’d been watching on her hand-me-down portable DVD player. To the adults, he didn’t have that much to say unless he was asked a direct question.

Two days later she ran into Eric in the diner. True, she thought she might and timed the end of her run specifically for that purpose. And of course he asked about her little dinner party and if her car was running all right. Two days after that she saw him walking into the deli and she decided it was time to get a pint of Carrie’s fabulous crab salad. He asked how her car was running. Two days after that she saw him in the diner again and he asked her what she’d been cooking lately and...how the car was running.

She could tell he liked her. When he saw her, he brightened. His face opened up a little and she got a good view of that wide, white smile. He kind of leaned toward her to talk. He was starting to really piss her off! She was going to have to make the first move.

It had been ten days and five random meetings since he’d delivered her car. Then she ran into him again. She was going home from the diner, he was headed there. There was the usual small talk—weather, car, cooking—and she said, “This is getting really old, Eric. Why don’t you ask me out? Am I that unappealing?”

His eyes got round and his mouth fell open. “Huh?”

“Very eloquent, but for God’s sake, my car is running just fine, I don’t cook big meals every day but when it’s cloudy, dark and wet, I like soups, stews and casseroles, and I can tell you like me. I can’t tell how much you like me, but I’m sure I’ll get a fix on that in no time. So—we’re both new in town and we only have a few friends. You probably have more than I do, being in business and all, but since we get along, like each other, aren’t dating anyone else, why don’t we go out? We’ll just go eat something. Maybe we can talk about anything other than my car, like our hobbies or something.”

The look on his face was priceless. He was clearly stunned. “Sure,” he finally said.

“Friday night. And I’m not cooking for you. That hungry, desperate look you get in your eyes when you come face-to-face with my domesticity is alarming. I’m not looking for a man to take care of. Or one to take care of me, for that matter. But I wouldn’t mind getting out of the house for more than a run. And I haven’t been out on a date in so long... Well, you wouldn’t believe how long. I’ve been working. Then I’ve been... I’ll explain another time. So, Friday night?”

“Yes,” he said immediately. “Friday night.” Then he grinned hugely. “You asked me out on a date. You asked me.”

“I got very tired of waiting,” she said with a bit of superior impatience.

“I’ve never been asked out on a date before.”

She looked him up and down. Six-two, one-eighty and built, copper hair, the most enviable green eyes she’d ever seen, a little shadow of beard. Really gorgeous. Those eyes. God those eyes. “You big liar,” she said.

He shook his head and gave a shrug. “Not since the Sadie Hawkins dance in eighth grade.”

“But people fixed you up all the time,” she reminded him.

“That’s when you go to the same birthday party or wedding reception. That’s not a date. And if I liked the woman, I asked.”

She frowned in doubt. “Are you wearing contacts?”

He shook his head again, but he was still grinning like a fool. “A gift from my mother. So, do you like seafood?”

“I’m from Boston,” she informed him.

“I’ll find something. I’ll pick you up at six. Is seven too late for dinner? Because I have to—”

“Shouldn’t I pick you up? Find the restaurant?” she asked.

“Nah, you did the hard part, the asking. I’ll do the rest. And by the way, I’m glad you asked. Thanks.”

“Were you ever going to?”

“I think so, yes. I was being cautious. Not for my sake. For yours.”

“Hmm. You’ll tell me more about that at dinner.”

“Fair enough. And you can tell me about the exciting world of research.”

She shook her head. “I really want you awake on this, our first date.”

* * *

Laine was very good at not overthinking things; she rarely found herself dwelling. On the Friday of her date, she dismissed it from her mind and focused on other things—a computer search for the right new rug for in front of the fireplace in her bedroom. She read a few chapters from a book she’d been into, put in a call to Pax and did a load of laundry. She was highly trained and knew how to place focus exactly where she wanted it. She had proven herself disciplined long ago—it was especially important in deep cover.

She could manage not to think about the fact that she hadn’t been on a date in a year and a half. How the devil had it been that long?

She also added a layer of blue polish to her toenails. It was funny the things one missed during a deep-cover assignment. The first two she’d been on had been relatively short—two weeks in a clinic that was suspected of drug trafficking and then four weeks working in a trucker’s dispatch office trying to ferret out the human trafficking connection. But it was over six months in The Fellowship and what she’d really come to grieve was toenail polish, perfume and bath gel. Not to mention hair products. Just because Laine was an FBI agent and an expert markswoman didn’t mean she was a thug or a tomboy. No, sir. She was actually a girlie girl. Yes, she could throw a big guy over the hood of a car and cuff him. And yes, she’d been in some fights—not by choice, but hell, sometimes duty called. She was strong, tough, fearless and feminine.

Finally it was nearly time and she showered, blew out her hair and donned a pair of nice wool slacks, boots, sweater, jacket and long silk scarf. The boots had thin, high heels—Eric was a solid six-two. She could use a little lift.

Her first surprise when she answered the door was how well he cleaned up. She nearly laughed at herself. Had she expected him to arrive in his mechanic’s uniform and sensible lace-up boots? He wore dark jeans, a nice sweater, suede jacket and black cowboy boots. And his name wasn’t sewn anywhere on his outfit.

“Ready?” he asked.

“Ready,” she said, turning to lock the door and flinging her white fringed scarf over her shoulder. He stood aside to let her proceed and she suddenly stopped because there in the driveway was the shiniest, cranberry-red, restored car. “Wow.”

“I guess you can appreciate an old car.”

“Nineteen-seventy Chevy El Camino. Car or truck? That’s the question.”

“You know your cars,” he said, coming around her to open the passenger door. “You into cars?”

“Not in a big way, but this is beautiful.” But she did know her cars. She could identify just about any vehicle make and model on sight. That was part of police work. She could also remember license plates without the need to write down the numbers—not exactly a common thing among law enforcement officers, but she had a skilled memory. Beyond skilled, really.

A beautiful restored classic was all about aesthetics and Laine had a sudden and respectful appreciation for what Eric could do. When he joined her in the front seat she was caressing the dash. “Did you do this?”