He was wearing a wedding ring.
She looked into those nice brown eyes. “You’re married?” she asked in disbelief. What was Addy thinking?
Then she caught a glimpse of amusement that moved from his eyes to tug at the corner of his mouth. “Yes, I am,” he replied. “But I’m not Randy Sanford.”
RANDY HAD BEEN LISTENING since he’d heard his name early in the conversation. Taking inventory in the back of the rig, he’d remained undetected, his attention captured by Paris O’Hara’s long, shapely legs and trim but nicely rounded backside clad in brown cords as she paced by the open back doors. Pale blond hair was tucked into a messy knot on top of her head, long strands like spider webbing brushed the shoulder of a rose-colored shirt.
So, this was Paris O’Hara. He listened in amusement as poor Chilly stared at her, clearly confused. Randy couldn’t imagine how this misunderstanding had occurred, but he had to admit that he was enjoying it—fully appreciating how Neanderthal that was.
Curiously, he could relate to everything she was saying. He hadn’t wanted to meet her, either, had also said a loud, clear “no” to Addy’s eager invitations. Including that one time when Evan’s wife had accepted a dinner date for him and he’d had to call and decline. That must have been the day Paris had driven the schoolkids to Boston.
He’d felt guilty about it. He never deliberately hurt anyone—physically or emotionally. But he knew in his heart there’d never be another Jenny Brewster. Even almost two years after her death and his move to Maple Hill, she was often on his mind. So, while he usually accepted Addy’s invitations, and showed her candidates a good time, he never called them again.
And Paris O’Hara looked too much like Jenny for comfort. At least at a distance. Evan Braga had pointed her out one day when they’d gone to the Breakfast Barn for lunch and she’d stopped in to get a coffee to go. Randy wasn’t dealing well with the loss of his fiancée, and anything that brought back thoughts of her—like long, blond hair—was unwelcome. Though now that he was able to inspect her more closely, he saw that she was several inches taller than Jenny, more slender, except for a nice flare to her hips. Her hair was almost platinum, not the gold Jenny’s had been.
He would have remained hidden, happy to let Chilly handle the misunderstanding, but then she noticed his partner’s wedding ring. Now Chill was stammering, trying to explain.
Randy stepped out, determined to react in a gentlemanly manner to her mistake, agree with her dismissal of the possibility of any relationship between them, then laugh it all off with Chilly when she walked away.
Until he saw her face.
Jenny had had a softly round, cute sort of face in which every sweet and lively quality she possessed shone like a candle. It had made him feel happy and loved.
Paris O’Hara’s face should have been pretty but wasn’t. She had a small, nicely shaped nose and a wide mouth with even teeth. Her perfect oval of a face glowed with a peaches-and-cream complexion. But beauty was in the eyes, and though hers were mossy green and thickly lashed, they were worried, as if she anticipated trouble. She didn’t seem afraid of it precisely, just uncertain about it.
She had doubts about herself, he guessed, and took no pains to hide it behind wiles or makeup. So the face that should have been stunning was simply interesting instead. He was surprised by how much that attracted him.
And—he was sure he wasn’t imagining this—a glimpse of sexual interest disturbed that worried look as she stared at him.
She seemed to consider him a moment before a grim sort of dismissal came into her eyes even as Randy prepared to introduce himself.
“This—” Chilly began.
“You’re Randy Sanford,” she said, sticking out her hand. He liked the way she refused to be embarrassed. He caught a whiff of jasmine.
“Yes,” he said, taking her long, slender fingers in his. They were cool and her grip was firm. He liked that, too.
“I was just explaining to—”
“Chilly,” he supplied for her. “Percival Childress. You can see why we call him Chilly.”
Chilly, who hated his pretentious first name, rolled his eyes.
She cast him a gentle smile. “I knew it had nothing to do with his personality.”
Chilly nodded modest acceptance of the compliment.
“I was starting to explain that he was pointed out to me at the spaghetti feed at the school,” she said.
He remembered the event. He and Chilly had gone together after a day of painting Chilly’s garage.
“We were sitting side by side,” Randy said, realizing what had caused her confusion.
Apparently she did, too. “When my friend pointed, I thought she was pointing to Chilly. My mistake.”
“No harm done. But even though you thought he has a warm personality,” he taunted gently, “you didn’t want to date him.”
He watched her blink, fascinated. “He’s married.”
“But before you knew that, you were giving him this big long story about—”
“I was explaining that I’m busy.” A little flicker of annoyance had appeared in her eyes and her voice. Her interest in him was definitely waning.
“No.” He didn’t know why he was taking issue with her claim. A moment ago, he’d have been grateful for the easy escape from Addy’s manipulations. Something about her was having an unusual effect on him. He didn’t know what, but it was pushing him—and there was nowhere to go but toward her. “That’s not what you said. You said you didn’t know yourself. In a Zen sort of way, whatever that means.”
She was absolutely still. He felt sure that was an indication of true annoyance.
“It’s intuition arrived at through meditation,” she said stiffly.
“Oh, I know what it is,” he replied. “I just wonder about the wisdom of meditating over one’s self. You’d miss everything going on around you.”
She expelled a breath—some safety-valve thing, he was sure. “You don’t know how to react to what’s around you,” she said with forced calm, “without self-knowledge.”
“Aren’t women supposed to have intuition without needing meditation?”
“I believe Zen implies a certain enlightenment.”
“But don’t you look for that to come from outside rather than inside?”
She dropped her arms impatiently. He felt the air stir around him. “You don’t know anything about me!” she snapped at him, as though his argument had been an accusation.
Quite accidentally, though, the argument seemed to have gotten him where he wanted to go.
“And I never will, will I, if you don’t want to go out with me.”
She stared at him. Even Chilly looked at him in surprise.
All the times he’d ever said he wanted nothing to do with women on a permanent basis echoed in his ears. Well, he didn’t want anything to do with her on a permanent basis. But he didn’t appreciate being dismissed so easily, and wondered what was going on inside her that made her look so troubled. And why it interested him.
It was scientific, he decided finally. That was it. Women were all so cool and contained these days, except for this one, who looked as though a tempest spun inside her.
He smiled. “I think you should reconsider.”
PARIS FELT NAKED. He was absolutely right;