Bluer Than Velvet. Mary McBride

good luck with your problem,” she called over her shoulder as she made a beeline for the Blazer, or more precisely for its driver.

      Great Caesar’s ghost. Laura sighed and leaned a shoulder against the doorjamb, while she watched Sam’s big, goofy smile as he greeted the woman. If she’d gotten the poor man in a world of trouble, she’d make it up to him somehow. Still, the way the little brunette was standing close to him, reaching out to touch his arm or his hand or his cheek, smiling up into his face, it appeared as if all had been forgiven already.

      Good, Laura thought, even as she was aware of a tiny tic of disappointment somewhere deep inside her which didn’t make any sense at all. Sam Zachary wasn’t hers to lose. Not only that, he wasn’t her type. She was a city mouse, born and bred, and not the least inclined to country bumpkins. And over and above all that, she reminded herself, she’d sworn off men completely. Who needed them? All they ever did was leave.

      She was standing at the sink, downing a tall glass of cool water, her back to the door, when he came in.

      “Good morning,” he said.

      “Good morning.” Laura turned to find him giving her a slow and thorough once-over from head to toe.

      “Nice outfit,” he said.

      How she could have forgotten she was wearing his shirt, Laura didn’t know, but now she squinched herself smaller and shorter to make sure the shirttails covered everything. “I hope you don’t mind,” she said.

      He shook his head. “No, I don’t mind. It looks a lot better on you than on me.”

      For a second she swore he was blushing like some big, dopey teenager, the one who slept in the time machine upstairs, then his expression cooled.

      “Here,” he said, offering her a paper grocery bag. “I stopped in town and picked up a few things just to tide you over.”

      Laura took the bag, peeked in to see jeans, a T-shirt or two, a pair of sneakers, a hairbrush and toothbrush and some pastel underthings. Her underthings! She’d bought the matching pink lace bra and panties only three or four weeks ago. “These are mine,” she exclaimed.

      “Well…yeah.”

      “But where did you get them?”

      His mouth stayed closed, but his eyes widened and his whole face seemed to say Well, duh. “At your place,” he finally said. “Where else?”

      “How did you know where I lived?” The subject hadn’t come up. Laura was certain of that. “I never told you where I lived.”

      “You didn’t?” He scratched his head, shrugged, then grinned. “I must be one hell of a detective, then. I left some frozen stuff in the car. Be right back.”

      An hour later, Laura was putting down her fork on her plate and letting out a long, satisfied sigh. “I don’t know about your detecting skills, but you’re one hell of a cook, Sam. What did you put in that omelette?”

      “Fennel.” He was sifting a second spoonful of sugar into his coffee as he spoke. “Did you like it?”

      Laura nodded even though she didn’t have a clue what fennel was. Probably something else from his locust-plagued garden. A little shiver raced down her spine at the mere thought.

      “Thanks for getting my clothes,” she said, watching in mute horror as he dipped back into the sugar bowl for a third heaping teaspoon, wondering why he didn’t weigh a thousand pounds.

      As it turned out, Sam had remembered the name of her shop—Nana’s Attic—and had gone there first thing this morning to retrieve some clothes for her. Brian, her part-time assistant, had directed Sam to the apartment upstairs.

      “You’re welcome,” he said, stirring his treacly brew.

      “Thank you, too, for not telling Brian where I am or what happened. It would just upset him.”

      “No problem. Did I tell you he said not to worry, that he could keep the place open until you came back?”