Million Dollar Valentine. Rita Clay Estrada

matter,” Crystal stated airily as she stood and walked toward the kitchen. “He’s just a friend of yours who, in his own stiff way, tried to be friendly to me for the day. It’s over and now I’ll get us dinner.”

      “Methinks, my niece, that you doth protest too much,” Helen said, a lilt in her tone.

      “Methinks, my aunt, that you have a problem perceiving relationship problems.” She refused to mention she was having lunch with Blake tomorrow. It was a secret she wanted to keep to herself for a little while longer.

      They ate while watching the news, each one easy with the other’s presence. It was relaxing and nice, reminding Crystal of her teenage years when her own mother had died and Helen had become her surrogate mom. It had been a rough time, but Aunt Helen had made it bearable.

      But dancing in the back of Crystal’s mind were some of the windows she’d seen in the mall. She wanted to try her hand at something different than the ordinary and average. She wasn’t sure how, yet. But if she studied the problem, it would come to her.

      Solutions always did.

      Half an hour after the news, she kissed her aunt good-night. “I’ll see you in the morning, dear. If you need me, call and I’ll hear you.”

      “I’ll be fine, Crystal. I broke my arm, not my head. And I feel frustrated enough not being able to the do what I want,” the older woman groused. “Just give me another week or two, and I’ll find my stride again.”

      “I’ll give you six weeks, Aunt. No less,” she promised, leaning over and giving her a kiss on the cheek. “See you tomorrow.”

      But after Crystal was in her bedroom at the end of the hall for fifteen minutes, she found herself too keyed up to be able to sleep. No matter what, her thoughts wound back to Blake and their talk. She relived everything he said and did. Every movement he made. Every emotion that he brought out in her. And she became more awake by the minute.

      He was so frustrating. Was there a wild, devil-may-care bone in his body? Did he ever run naked through his apartment? What about belly laughs that massaged his every organ?

      Forcing herself to focus on something else, she lit one of the scented candles she’d brought with her from Santa Fe and sat cross-legged in the center of her bed. With her hands palms up and open to all kinds of possibilities, she took several deep breaths to cleanse her body of all the pent-up carbon monoxide she’d cultivated all day. After a few minutes, she did her transcendental meditation. If it was good enough for half the doctors in the world to proclaim it as calming medication for the heart, then it was good enough for her to quickly erase the provocative image of a more free, spontaneous, Blake Wright running through a field of mountain flowers in joyous abandon—naked.

      She hoped.