In Good Company

“Yes.” He made a great show of studying the items in her basket. “Looks like Italian night at your house.”

She shrugged. “It’s easy.”

“Not as easy as a restaurant,” he pointed out.

“True. But much less complicated.”

“I’m not complicated. I’m the essence of simplicity. In fact, since we’re neighbors, it would be simple for me to drop by and see if you cook as well as you mold the minds of Charity City youth.”

Simple for him, maybe. Not for her. Sitting across from him at a restaurant would have been high enough on the intimacy scale. But sitting across from him in her apartment would send intimacy into the danger zone. She’d already spent time in that zone. It hadn’t worked for her then, and she had no reason to think anything had changed. And, for crying out loud, hadn’t they already gone through this?

“Tonight’s not good,” she hedged.

“Are you cooking for someone else?”

“No,” she said quickly, then kicked herself. That would have been a good out, but she’d missed it. What was wrong with her? He’d told her she was a knockout. Although her geeky, self-conscious, socially challenged inner child didn’t believe him. What was it about this man that scrambled her thought processes?

“So you’re doing spaghetti solo because it’s not a good night?” He stuck a hand in the pocket of his battered brown leather jacket.

“Look, I already told you that—”

“We talk only on school grounds,” he finished. “Don’t look now, but we’re in the grocery store. And we’re talking.”

How was she going to get through to him? Scrambled thought processes would be a step up from what her mind was doing. Meltdown would be more accurate. Especially when one took into account the radioactive heat generated by close proximity to Des’s special brand of animal magnetism. But now she had to come up with an excuse to brush him off. And being abrasive didn’t come naturally to her. The tough facade she was putting on wouldn’t hold up much longer because she felt certain even a man like Des had feelings to hurt. So she was reluctant to be so direct again. That was why she said the first thing that came to mind.

“Dinner isn’t a good idea in a small town like this.”

“You mean folks in small towns don’t eat an evening meal?” he asked, feigning a completely serious expression.

The corners of her mouth twitched, but she refused to be amused. From letting him amuse her it was a hop, skip and jump to rekindling her crush. And that wasn’t funny.

“It’s like this, Des. I’m a teacher—”

“Teachers don’t eat?”

“Yes, of course we do. But I’m not comfortable sharing dinner in my apartment with a man. It’s a small town.”

“So you said.”

“I’m a teacher,” she said again.

“And a fine one, too. I could tell.”

“It’s a recipe for scandal. Everyone talks. The good, bad and ugly spreads like wildfire. I just don’t think I want to go there.”

“Hmm. Oddly enough, that sounds pretty good to me after the big city where everyone is a stranger and no one gives a damn what anyone else does.”

The anger flared in his eyes again and Molly wondered about it. What had happened to Des since he’d left town all those years ago? She knew he’d gone to college, but that was all. Abruptly, she put the lid on those thoughts. This was bad. Curiosity about his life was worse than bad. It was downright dangerous.

“I’ve got to go,” she said.

Before he could respond, she turned and headed for the cash register to pay for her pathetic dinner. So what if she hadn’t picked up salad fixings? Lack of roughage wasn’t the end of the world, but continued closeness to Des could be. So what if he thought her social skills as backward as they’d been all those years ago? She couldn’t afford to care what he thought.

Curiosity about him meant that her interest was escalating. She had to nip that in the bud, then ideally work to become indifferent. Soon, she vowed, she would feel nothing for Desmond O’Donnell. No shortness of breath. No heart palpitations. Come to think of it, her symptoms resembled a heart attack—which was exactly what she was trying to avoid. At all costs, she needed to protect her heart.

When she felt nothing for him, she would be home free. And speaking of home, this town was hers. He’d left, but she’d made her life here.

She wouldn’t let him waltz in and mess that up. Again.

Chapter Three

“It shouldn’t be this hard to get a man.”

“Maybe not for you. But the rest of us aren’t so lucky.” Molly looked at her beautiful blond friend and sighed.

Charity had a look that shifted effortlessly from girl-next-door cute to lingerie-model sexy. She was a Wentworth, a descendant of the town’s founding family. She was a Paris-trained chef, although if she never worked a day in her life, her rich-and-famous lifestyle wouldn’t suffer. Unlike Molly, who wouldn’t take a dime from her dad, Charity had a good relationship with her father.

Charity was five years older so they hadn’t known each other in high school and when Molly joined the Charity City Foundation auction committee, she’d expected a snooty and condescending Charity Wentworth. Nothing could be further from the truth. In short, Charity was practically perfect. Except for the part where as chairwoman of the committee she had put Molly in charge of finding men willing to donate their time for auction.

With just under two weeks until the auction, Charity had called this strategic planning session at Molly’s antique oak dining-room table. Charity was meeting with volunteers in charge of different subcommittees to make sure the event came off without a hitch. She also chaired the foundation that distributed grants.

“We need more men,” Charity reminded her. “This is the seventy-fifth anniversary of the very first auction, which started during the Depression.”

“Thanks for the history lesson.”

“I’ll be history if we bomb. The folks are putting the pressure on Jack and me to raise more money than ever before. We need volunteers, and lots of them. If they fetch a pretty penny, so much the better.”

“Well, Houston, you’ve got a serious problem,” Molly said. “I’m no good with men. Never was, never will be.”

“You don’t have to be good with them. You just have to get them to give up some time. Convince them that volunteering for Buy-a-Guy is character-building and good for the soul.”

“Volunteering,” Molly said, shaking her head. “That’s how it starts. All I wanted to do was give a little back to the town. Maybe start a recycling program. Plant a tree. Clean up graffiti. But this is what happens when you miss a planning meeting. Someone puts you in charge of what no one else wants to do.”

Charity grinned. “There are worse things than being in charge of men.”

Yeah, Molly thought. Not being in charge. Of one man. The one she couldn’t seem to get off her mind. One Desmond O’Donnell.

“I’m just not the sort of woman who inspires men to get in touch with their inner nobility. No man has ever thrown his cloak over a puddle so I didn’t soil my dainty feet. Mostly they just dump on me. Getting a man to line up and wait for orders is your sphere of expertise, Charity. Not mine.”

Long blond hair swung from side to side as the other woman shook her head. “If only that were true. But I’ve had my share of unfortunate experiences. Very, very public experiences. I have orders from my father to keep a low profile.”

“Good luck. The only way to accomplish that is to go out in public with a bag over your head.”

Charity laughed, then turned serious. “I know male recruitment’s a lousy job, Mol. But someone has to do it.”

“If I’d known this was going to happen,” Molly grumbled, “I’d have found another outlet for my philanthropic pursuits.”

“Look, you can continue to whine. Or we can work together to get the job done. My brother doesn’t think I’m up to the challenge and I’m determined to make Black Jack Wentworth eat his words.”