Debrah Morris - A Little Night Matchmaking

A tall man in a black Stetson and mirrored sunglasses yelled as he approached. “What’s the matter with you, lady? You asleep?”

Not exactly. She’d been daydreaming about a nighttime dream, and the distraction had almost gotten her killed.

When she didn’t answer, the man stooped down and scowled at close range. “You nearly hit my trailer.”

“I noticed.” A large truck pulling a flatbed loaded with heavy equipment had failed to negotiate the turn onto the narrow country road. The dual wheels on the trailer’s left side had slid into the rocky ditch beside the road, blocking entry onto the highway. Four men stood in the sun as though awaiting orders from the scowler.

“You all right?” Stetson’s words couldn’t have contained less concern. “Not hurt, are you?”

“No. Scared spitless, but the condition isn’t fatal.” Brandy noticed the logo spelled out in big flaming letters on the side of the truck. Hotspur Well Control. Now there was a fine piece of small-world rotten luck. She had almost plowed into a truck owned by the very company her boss was suing on Harry Peet’s behalf. At least she didn’t feel too bad about the litigation. The company was a nuisance, and its employees weren’t exactly courteous, either.

“Then I’d appreciate it if you’d get out of the way so my men can hook a mini-crane to that trailer.”

“Sure. No problem.” Her heart rate returned to normal, but every time the man spoke, it kicked up again. There was something familiar about that voice. When Brandy shifted the car into reverse, it coughed like an asthmatic senior citizen, then rattled and died. She groaned. Not now. She couldn’t afford a tune-up until payday. Please, please, please start.

Muttering a prayer to the patron saint of old engines, she performed her standard good luck ritual. Three taps on the dash. Rearview mirror realign. Kiss blown in the direction of Chloe’s picture swinging from her key chain.

“Today would be good,” Stetson grumbled.

“Fine!” When she tried again the engine wheezed to life. Thank you, St. Combustion. She backed the car several yards, churning up enough dirt to make the tall man cough. Served him right for snapping her head off. He hadn’t bothered removing the aviator-style sunglasses, and the wide hat brim cast his face in shadows. She couldn’t get a good look at his face, but the rest of him wasn’t too bad. Of course, the state was full of hunky cowboys.

This one had a major case of the four Ts.

Tall. Tan. Tough. Texan.

He stomped off without another word, his scuffed boots kicking up angry little clouds of dust. Add a fifth T. Testy. Brandy watched him walk away. There was something familiar about the set of his wide shoulders. Had they met before? No. She’d remember him. Confidence without swagger. Firm step. Slim hips. Faded jeans hugging all the right places. She would definitely remember.

Close but no cigar. She didn’t need another difficult man in her life and wasn’t willing to go there. Following her divorce four years ago, her mother had warned her about dating again. “Be careful you don’t come down with frog-kiss fever.” She’d explained the condition whereby a woman feels compelled to give even unsuitable men a chance in the hopes of finding the right one. Well, not her. She was holding out for Prince Charming. Only nice guys need apply.

Brandy parked at the side of the road, got out and leaned against her car in the slanting afternoon sun. She used her cell phone to call the law office and let the receptionist know where she was and why. Then she punched in the number for the after-school program. They had a strict tardy policy and every minute past six o’clock would cost her. Still, she should warn them she might be late. Chloe was such a worrier.

After making the calls, she waited impatiently as the men unhitched the disabled trailer from the truck. The flat, dry pastureland wasn’t much to look at, but Stetson had plenty of eye appeal. Too bad he didn’t have a personality to match. If he weren’t so bossy, his deep voice might have been sexy. If he weren’t so fiercely masculine, his long-legged, loose-hipped stride might have been graceful. There was economy in his movements. This was a man who didn’t waste time or energy. Such intensity would make him equally at home in a brawl or on a dance floor. In the boardroom or the bedroom.

Disgusted with her errant thoughts, Brandy removed her suit jacket and tossed it in the back seat. The inside of the car was roughly the temperature of a pottery kiln. Sunstroke would explain why she was having feverish thoughts about a stranger who couldn’t work up enough interest to glance her way. Which was worse? Daytime delusions or nocturnal fantasies? No doubt, both were side effects of self-inflicted celibacy. Four years was a long time to be alone.

She glanced at her watch and groaned. The afternoon was slipping away. She’d never get to town by six if she didn’t hit the road soon.

“Hey, mister!”

The man in the black Stetson looked up. “Yeah?”

She held out her arm and jabbed her wristwatch. “How much longer is this going to take?”

“As long as it takes.” He shook his head as though she’d just asked a stupid question and turned his back on her.

Twenty minutes later, the crane hoisted the trailer back onto the road. It took the crew another ten minutes to clear the equipment. Brandy jumped behind the wheel and started the engine, and this time it didn’t even grumble. The boss waved her around with an exaggerated bow, but stepped in front of the car at the last minute.

“Now what?” The engine idled like a threshing machine, and she clutched the vibrating steering wheel.

He walked around the car to the driver’s side window. “Timing needs adjusting.”

“No kidding. Life is all about timing. And yours isn’t all that hot.” Even if the rest of him was.

“I meant your car’s running a little rough.”

He had stopped her to point out the obvious? “Thanks, I’ll get right on it.” She let up on the brake.

He slapped the roof of her car. “Wait. Something else needs fixing before you head back to town.”

She gave the righted trailer a pointed look. “Haven’t you already done what you came for?”

“Not quite.” He pulled a red bandana from the back pocket of his jeans, reached into the car and scrubbed at her cheek.

“What are you doing?” Brandy wasn’t the screeching type, but his unexpected action startled her. Even more startling, was her reaction. Without warning, the stranger’s touch slammed past the barricade she’d erected around her emotions since her divorce. He touched more than her cheek. Tapping into an undercurrent of longing, the connection flattened her defenses like an eighteen-wheeler rolling over a traffic cone.

The rush of odd feelings shook Brandy to the core, but not as much as the effort required to conceal them. Just as she began to recover from the impact, another startling thought blindsided her.

She knew this man.

The notion pierced Brandy’s mind, strong and certain. She’d seen him before. Somewhere. Sometime. Hadn’t she? No. He was definitely a stranger. And an annoying one at that. Still, she couldn’t deny the uneasy sense of having been touched by him before. She gripped the steering wheel tightly, forgetting for a moment how to drive. Instinct told her to step on the gas, yet she couldn’t resist the dangerous urge to stay. Distracted, she gunned the engine. She was light-headed and dizzy, but that was due to the sun’s heat, not the man’s.

“Next time you eat chocolate on a warm day,” he said with the twitch of a smile, “check the mirror for leftovers.” He waited five pounding heartbeats before wheeling around and striding back to his men.