if he was flattered by it. “Maybe I should get a Porsche like his, the one he smashed himself up in.”
She sucked in her breath, as if the wind had just been knocked out of her. “You shouldn’t say things like that.”
“I was just goofing around.” And being stupid, he supposed. He should’ve known that she wouldn’t think his comment was funny. “It was a great car, a 550 Spyder that he was driving on his way to a race. That’s a pretty good reason for me to get one.”
She stared at him, unmoving, unblinking. “I’d prefer that you didn’t.”
He leaned against the doorjamb, trying to ease the tension.
“Are you going to invite me in to see your clothes?” For now, she was wearing shorts and a loose-fitting khaki shirt, with her strawberry blond hair fastened into a ponytail at her nape. He imagined undoing the clip and running his hands through it. She had the silkiest-looking hair, with each piece always falling into place. Not that he should be thinking about messing up her hair. He was supposed to be keeping those types of thoughts in check.
“Yes, come on in.” She stepped back to allow him entrance. The brightly lit interior featured hardwood floors and attractive window treatments. She’d decorated with art deco furnishings from the era of the building, mixed with crafty doodads. He noticed a patchwork quilt draped over the sofa. He knew she liked to sew. Sometimes she gave the quilts she made to the other women in the office, for birthdays and whatnot.
“You’ve done a nice job with the place,” he said.
“Thank you.” She had yet to relax. She still seemed bothered by what he’d said earlier.
Now he wished he could take it back. Not his interest in the Porsche, but the way he’d joked about it. He hooked his sunglasses into the V of his shirt, and she frowned at him.
“Do you race cars because you have a death wish?” she asked, rather pointedly.
Cripes, he thought. She had it all wrong. “I do it to feel alive.” Everything he did was for that reason. “I don’t want to look back and regret anything.”
“I hope that’s the case.”
“Believe me, it is.” After waiting for the smoke to clear, he gestured to the quilt. “When I was a kid, we had one sort of like that hanging on our living room wall that my paternal grandmother made.”
Carol inched closer to him. “You did?”
He nodded. “She died before I was born, but the design was associated with her clan.”
“Do you still have it, tucked away somewhere?”
He shook his head. “It disappeared when I went into foster care. It was sold, I suppose. Or given away, or whatever else happened to my family’s belongings.” He glanced at the fireplace mantel, where he spotted a framed photograph of what he assumed was her family: three towheaded girls and a forty-something mom and dad, posing in a park.
He picked up the picture and quietly asked, “Are you in this?”
“Yes,” she replied, just as softly. “I’m the older sister. I was about ten there.”
He studied the image. Everyone looked happy. Normal. Like his family had been. But he didn’t keep photos around. He couldn’t bear to see them every day.
Jake was lucky that he’d bonded with Garrett and Max. They’d been a trio of troubled boys in foster care who’d formed a pact, vowing to get powerfully rich and help one another along the way. The goal had ultimately allowed them to become the successful men they were today. Without Garrett and Max, Jake would’ve wanted to die, for sure.
He wondered if anyone had helped Carol get through her grief or if she’d done it on her own. They rarely talked about their pasts. Jake didn’t like revisiting old ghosts, his or anyone else’s, but he was doing it with her now.
“It’s a nice picture,” he said, placing it back on the mantel. “It must have been a good day.”
“It definitely was. It was taken at my dad’s company picnic.” Her voice remained soft, loving. “We all had a great time that day, especially my sisters. They were only a year apart and were really close. Sometimes people mistook them for twins, and they always got a kick out of that.”
“I had two sisters, too. Only, they were older. I was their pesky little brother.”
Her light green eyes locked on to his. “How old were you when...?”
“Twelve. How old were you?”
She let out her breath. “Eleven.”
His heart dropped to his stomach. He knew that her family had died from carbon monoxide poisoning from a faulty appliance in their home. But he didn’t know the details. “How did you survive when the rest of them didn’t?”
“I wasn’t there. I was at a neighbor’s house. It was my first slumber party. I was younger than some of the other girls, so my parents were hesitant to let me go, but I begged them, so they gave in.” She breathed a little deeper. “Not being home that night saved my life.”
“It was different for me. I was in the car when it crashed. The impact was fast, brutally quick, but I remember it in slow motion.” It had been like an out of body experience that never ended. “I have a scar.” He pushed back the pieces of hair that fell across his forehead. “Here, just below my hairline. It was noticeable when I was young, but it’s faded over the years.”
She approached him and reached out to touch the scar, running her index finger along the pale line. She was painstakingly gentle, and it made him want to kiss her. They were standing so close he could’ve leaned forward and captured her mouth with his. But he didn’t take the liberty. They stared at each other instead, steeped in a strange kind of intimacy.
“I’m glad you survived the accident,” Carol said, smoothing his hair across his brow.
“So am I.” But before things got unbearably awkward, Jake stepped back, trying to restrain the tenderness between them. “After the crash, I used to pray to Uncta, a deity from Choctaw mythology who steals fire from the sun. I was the only one who was rescued from the car before it went up in flames.”
“Did you think Uncta had saved you?”
“No, but I wanted to steal fire, too. To have his powers.”
But that wasn’t going to help Jake now. He’d already jumped straight from the frying pan and into the flame, feeling things for Carol that he wished he didn’t feel. He still wanted to kiss her, as passionately as he could.
Copyright © 2016 by Sheree Henry-Whitefeather
Lee McKenzie
Her Problem
As a busy single mom to her teenage daughter, Kristi Callahan doesn’t have time for a man. But it sure would be nice if her mother believed that, too. She keeps setting Kristi up on disastrous blind dates, determined to find her “the one.”
His Problem
After Nate McTavish’s wife died, he was faced with raising his twin little girls alone. Making it up as he goes along and sometimes questioning his daddy skills, he also has to fend off women his well-meaning family keep throwing at him.
Their Solution
When Nate hires Kristi to stage his house before selling it, they instantly realize they’ve found the perfect answer to their problem: be fake dates for each other! It’s a great plan—until they start to wonder if the real thing might not be even better....
“A blind date?”