The Pregnant Proposition. Sandra Paul

she looked. Her drastically lightened hair framed her slim jaw in a style Misty often wore, and she’d dyed it Misty’s color, too—a golden-wheat shade with stripes of platinum streaking through it. Her simple, sleeveless blouse dipped into a V displaying a modest amount of cleavage, and the rosy-red color of the garment highlighted the pink on her cheeks.

      Troy finished his beer and signaled Big Bob for another. On the TV, the trucks on steroids had been replaced by a skinny kid at a flea market earnestly demonstrating the wonders of an orange chamois cloth. Big Bob muted the television volume and cranked up Jim Croce on the stereo speakers, but Ally remained focused on the now silent TV, watching as intently as if she could read the kid’s lips and expected to be quizzed on the ShamWow! later.

      Well, Troy had a quiz of his own to put to her, and he wanted his answers before Misty got back. So he corralled the next beer Big Bob slid toward him, then leaned in close to Ally. “So, Al. How’re things going with you?” he asked, bumping her shoulder companionably with his, as if they were long-lost war buddies recently reunited.

      She almost slipped off her stool. She caught herself, then answered through clenched, small white teeth without looking his way. “Things are going fine, O’Malley.” Keeping her gaze fixed on the car salesman who’d replaced the ShamWow! kid, she added, “Or they would be if you’d slink on back to your hidey-hole in the corner.”

      “Ah, so you noticed me, did you?” Stifling a grin at the way the comment made her soft lips press together, he drawled affably, “I’ll just do you that lil ole favor, as soon as you tell me what’s going on, what with the change in your hair and clothes—” his gaze traveled to that nearly illegal skirt “—and all.”

      She turned to pin him with a cold blue glare. “And I’ll just do that lil ole favor for you,” she promised, exaggerating her drawl just as he’d done, “as soon as you tell me what concern it is of yours.”

      “Oh, it’s not any of my concern,” he responded promptly, “but curiosity is my besetting sin.”

      “Womanizing, drinking and lying are your besetting sins. Laziness is up there, too. Curiosity doesn’t even make the list.”

      “And yet I’m definitely curious about all these changes.” His gaze wandered over her again. “Nice ones for the most part—except for the hair.”

      Taken by surprise, she exclaimed, “I thought men preferred blondes!”

      He shrugged. “Maybe some do. But I prefer your hair like it used to be. Long and dark. Silky-looking. Real pretty.”

      The sincerity in his husky tones was unmistakable. Alarmed by the bloom of pleasure she felt, Ally said caustically, “Gee, that’s nice to know, O’Malley. Why don’t I go outside and write that in the dirt, just in case—in some far distant future—your opinion matters to me.” She snapped her fingers. “Oh, wait! I have a better idea. Why don’t you go do it?”

      If she’d hoped to deflate him, she failed miserably. Amusement danced in his green eyes. “Are you asking me to leave?”

      She didn’t bother mincing the matter. “Yes.”

      He assumed a hurt expression. “You wound me, Ally. You really do,” he said sadly, then lifted his hand to regard the base of his thumb as he played the trump card he’d had on her for more than twenty years. “Again.”