as he punched the end button and slid the phone onto the dashboard. Too friggin’ late.
A HALF HOUR after closing the door on Josh, Holly eyed the rich fudge dessert she’d just removed from the oven. She’d run out of flour halfway through the recipe and so the cake had turned out more ho-hum than extreme. The edges sagged and the middle had caved in enough to give it a lopsided look. She pinched the edge and popped it into her mouth.
Rich chocolate exploded on her tongue and tantalized her taste buds for a long, heart-pounding moment. Not bad for ho-hum. Then again, she wasn’t an adequate judge at the moment, not with her senses still buzzing from a certain tall, dark and delicious cowboy.
His image pushed into her mind and heat swept through her body. Her hands trembled and her insides went all tight and itchy.
She turned toward the mixing bowl where she’d whipped up the concoction a half hour ago. Rich batter still coated the sides and her stomach growled. She grabbed a spoon and scraped one side before taking a bite. Where one was usually enough to kill any frustration eating away inside her, she had to scrape the entire bowl and lick both beaters before she felt even marginally satisfied.
She ate another spoonful for good measure before setting the empty bowl and beaters in the sink. The doorbell rang just as she turned to her computer to track her supply order.
“Finally,” she breathed as she hauled open the door to find a handful of women standing on her front porch.
“Welcome to Romeo,” they announced in unison.
“I’m Lolly Mae Langtree,” said the thirtysomething blonde standing in the middle. “President of the Juliets. We’re the organization for the single women in town. We coordinate with the Elks and the other men’s groups to plan mixers and give our members a chance to get out and meet Mr. Right.” She handed Holly a large, white, wrapped box decorated with a big, pink bow. “On behalf of everyone, I’d like to welcome you to Romeo.” She gave Holly a fierce hug. “We are so excited to have Rose’s very own granddaughter with us. It’s such a shame how the townsfolk used to treat her—the women, I mean—but you don’t have to worry a thing about that. This isn’t the Dark Ages anymore and we don’t sit around doing needlepoint and blaming Rose for the lack of commitment-minded men in town like the Juliets before us.”
“That’s right. We’re really into quilting now, and we aren’t the least bit threatened by your know-how.”
“What Marcia Renee is trying to say,” Lolly offered, “is that we respect you on a professional level.”
“That’s right,” one of the other women chimed in. “We know you’re not here to drain the pool of available men.”
“What Cookie Michelle is trying to say,” Lolly added, “is that we know you’re here in a purely professional capacity.”
“I make aphrodisiac desserts,” Holly said. “That’s my profession.”
“Of course, it is,” Lolly told her as she moved past her into the living room, a look of awe on her face. “So this is it.” She turned. “It doesn’t look a thing like I expected.”
“There isn’t an ounce of crushed red velvet anywhere,” another of the women said, her gaze open and excited. “Jennifer Susan Fitch,” she told Holly. “Pleased to make your acquaintance.” Her attention traveled the room. “I always thought there’d be crushed velvet. There’s always crushed velvet in all of the old Mae West movies.”
“True, but how can you tell it’s red crushed velvet?” another woman asked. “It could be orange or purple or even blue. The films are all in black and white, so there’s no way to really know.” She perched on the edge of the plastic-wrapped sofa just delivered yesterday.
“Red is risqué,” Jennifer said as she followed the woman’s lead and seated herself. “It has to be red.”
“You only say that because you just redecorated your bedroom in red and you’re hoping it’ll work on Charlie.”
“I am not. First off, Charlie and I have only had two dates. He certainly hasn’t seen my bedroom at this point. But when he does, he’ll be swept away with passion because red is a sensual color. Red says sex. Hot, vibrant, exciting sex. The apple in the garden of Eden was red.” Her look said so there.
“How do you know it was red? Maybe it was a Granny Smith?”
“What woman would forfeit eternity for a Granny Smith?”
“Maybe it was a Gala,” another woman offered.
“I’d believe a Gala before I’d believe a Granny Smith. At least they’re sweet, and they’re red.”
“They’re a pale, washed-out red.”
“Girls, girls,” Lolly chimed in as she perched on the arm of an overstuffed, plastic-wrapped chair. “I’m sure Holly doesn’t want to hear us debate the merits of apples.”
“Actually, it’s sort of fascinating.” Holly had never had real friends of her own—she and her mother had moved too much and later, when she’d been stuck in the same city in foster care, she’d still gone from family to family. She’d always wanted to join in on the conversations in the girls’ locker room or at lunch, but she’d learned early on to hold back.
Getting too friendly only made leaving that much harder.
Not anymore.
“You’re sweet. Isn’t she sweet, girls?” A dozen heads bobbed in agreement. “I know you’ve got bigger things to worry over. Moving from a new town has got to be exhausting.”
“It’s not that bad.”
“Good, because the girls and I were hoping you could make time to attend our monthly luncheon. It’s always the third Tuesday and we have some really great speakers. We’re primarily focused on topics that appeal to single women.”
“Namely men,” one of the other women chimed in.
“Definitely men.”
“How to find them. How to keep them. How to please them. That’s where you come in.”
“I’m not sure I’m following you—” Holly started, her words lost as Lolly linked arms with her.
“Why, where are my manners? You don’t just hand over a gift and then talk a woman’s ear off. You have to open it!” She ushered Holly over to the sofa.
The two women on the sofa scooted apart and patted the spot between them. Holly adjusted her grip on the heavy box as she found herself steered into the spot between them.
“Go on,” one woman said.
“Open it,” came another encouragement.
With a dozen interested gazes hooked on her, she pulled off the bow and tore off the wrapping paper. She eyed the colorful patchwork quilt nestled in white tissue paper and a memory pulled at her.
She’d been in the second grade, sitting in the back of Mrs. Klatt’s room, watching the entire class sing happy birthday to one of the other students. A girl with long blond hair and pink Barbie boots. The most popular girl at Chicago’s Wallaby Elementary. Mrs. Klatt had presented the girl with a cupcake sporting a blazing pink candle while the kids had piled dozens of handmade gifts onto her desk. It was a tradition repeated for every student in Mrs. Klatt’s class.
Everyone except Holly.
Her birthday came and went the following week, but there was no cupcake or candle or presents, or even a birthday song. Because Holly came and went herself, too fast for anyone to learn her birthday, much less remember it.
She blinked back the hot tears that sprang to her eyes. “It’s really beautiful.”
“Jennifer made it,” Lolly said. “She sells them at her shop in town—Quilts and Stuff. She also sells the most