Debrah Morris - A Little Night Matchmaking

He extended his hand, which was as large and tan as the rest of him. “I didn’t mean to frighten you, ma’am. I’m Patrick Templeton.”

“Trick!” Chloe chirped.

He frowned again, but managed not to scowl in her innocent, upturned face. “Yeah, that’s right. People call me Trick. How did you know?”

Chloe smiled in the direction of the file cabinet. “I’m a good guesser.”

The name finally registered with Brandy. “You’re Patrick Templeton? The owner of Hotspur Well Control?”

“Yeah. I’m also the defendant in Futterman’s latest bogus lawsuit.” He leaned forward, bracing one hand on the desk beside her hip. His face was too close. She edged back and drew a deep breath, but still couldn’t breathe properly. Was he sucking all the oxygen out of the room?

“I don’t have time for this, lady,” he said in a measured tone. “I have fires to put out.”

Brandy couldn’t respond for a moment. She was busy fighting an internal wildfire ignited by the disconcerting knowledge that she already knew how kissing him would feel. Impossible. She did not possess that much imagination. Awareness and longing coursed through her like a river of molten gold. What was happening here? Was this what hypnosis was all about?

Finally Chloe tugged on her hand. “Mommy? Trick is talking to you.”

“Sorry.” She marshaled enough energy to step away from him. She was losing her grip. Fantasy men did not come to life and storm into one’s office. She was the one who needed lessons on what was real and what was make-believe. “You have fires to control, and I have bedtime stories to read. Maybe we should call it a night.”

“Harry Peet’s got everything all wrong,” he insisted. “I need—”

“I’m sure you understand why I can’t discuss a pending case with a defendant. If you’d like to make an appointment with Mr. Futterman, call his secretary tomorrow during regular office hours. Now, if you’ll excuse us, we were just leaving.”

“Right.” He seemed confused by her dismissal. Had he never had a request denied before? “Can I help you carry anything?”

Too late to go gallant on her. “No, thank you. I’m quite used to carrying my own load.” At the last moment, she remembered the conference documents stacked in the printer tray. She quickly divided the two copies, placed one on her desk and took Chloe with her to drop the other on Futterman’s desk where he would find it first thing in the morning.

She expected Templeton to be gone when she returned, but no such luck. “Allow me to show you out.”

Apparently no one could show him anything. He led the way to the front door and stood on the sidewalk while Brandy locked the door. The lock didn’t stick or fight back this time. Strange. The shiny white pickup with the flaming Hotspur logo on the door was angled into the space next to her battered Ford Escort. The truck’s impressive automotive good looks were as intimidating to the little car as its owner’s were to her. She tossed her briefcase and purse on the front seat and leaned in the back to buckle Chloe into her booster seat.

“Wait!” Chloe yelled when she started to close the door.

“What, honey?”

“Let Celestian get in first. You don’t want to squash him.”

“No, I don’t.” Brandy paused to give Chloe’s invisible playmate time to make himself comfortable on the seat. She caught Trick Templeton’s amused look. A slow smile transformed his features, making him seem even more familiar.

“Don’t ask.” She cranked the window down halfway and shut the door.

He backed up, his hands in front of him. “I wasn’t about to.”

“Mommy, I didn’t say goodbye to Trick.”

Brandy sighed. Why did her daughter insist on treating this soon-to-be-sued defendant like a long-lost uncle?

“Tell her goodbye,” she said, “or we’ll be here all night.”

“Yes, ma’am.” He braced one hand on the car’s roof and leaned down to look inside. “Goodbye, Little Bit.”

“Don’t leave yet, Trick,” Chloe whispered.

“Why not?” he whispered back.

“We might need your help.”

“Chloe, say goodbye to Mr. Templeton.”

“Bye, Trick.” She extended her little fingers like a miniature queen deigning to accept a subject’s kiss. He reached in, his large hand swallowing hers, and pumped a couple of times.

“Nice meeting you, kid.”

“Don’t leave yet,” Chloe warned again.

“I won’t.” He walked around the car as Brandy slid behind the steering wheel. “How old is she again?”

“Five.”

“Funny. I would’ve guessed thirty.”

“I know.” Brandy grinned. “Be sure to call for an appointment tomorrow.”

“Don’t worry, I will. And I’m sorry if I…” His sentence dribbled off.

“Stormed into my office like a renegade SWAT team door kicker and scared the bejeezus out of me and my innocent child?”

“Little Bit didn’t seem scared,” he pointed out.

“I know. She’s more trusting than me.”

“Well, I’m sorry. I’m not usually so…”

“Demanding?” she supplied cheerfully.

“No, I’m usually demanding. I was going to say rude.” He stood beside the little car, backlit by a street lamp’s light, which cast soft, familiar shadows across his face. His white shirt practically glowed in the dark. Barely controlled energy hummed around him like a powerful unseen electromagnetic field.

“Apology accepted.” She turned the key in the ignition and nothing happened. She tried again with the same frustrating result. She bit back a few colorful curses she couldn’t say in front of Chloe. Thanks a bunch, St. Combustion. For nothing.

“Is the car dead, Mommy?”

“As the proverbial doornail.” Brandy leaned forward and rested her head on the steering wheel. Would this horrible day never end?

“What’s a purveeal doornail?” Chloe loved learning new words.

Trick Templeton interrupted before Brandy could answer. “I think I told you to have the engine checked.”

“That’s right, you did.” Brandy sat up and smacked her forehead in mock wonder. “I don’t know why I didn’t heed your unsolicited, but clearly valuable advice. I could have squeezed in a complete engine diagnostic on one of my many leisurely breaks this afternoon! My mistake!”

“Hey, you don’t have to get huffy.”

“Huffy does not begin to describe how I am about to get.” If she wasn’t careful, she might even cry. It was past Chloe’s bedtime. She was tired. She’d had a trying day. Tomorrow, she’d have to get up and jump through the hoops again. Figure out how to get the stupid car fixed. Pay the bills. Be a good mom. Do a good job. She might be used to carrying her own load, but life would be a lot easier if she could share the burden.

“How will we get home, Mommy?”

“I don’t know yet.” If they camped out in her office, she wouldn’t be late for work in the morning. That should make Mr. Futterman happy.

Trick Templeton squatted down beside the open window. “Want me to take a look? I’m pretty good with my hands.”

“I’ll bet you are,” she muttered. She didn’t dare linger on that thought.

“Look lady, do you want me to look under your hood or not?”

“Sure. Why not? Knock yourself out, cowboy.” She reached down and popped the release lever. Trick walked around to the front of the car, raised the hood and ducked under it.

“Trick will fix the battery, Mommy.” Where did Chloe get her optimism? Better yet, where did she get her mechanical knowledge?

“I hope so.” Brandy let her head drop back against the headrest and closed her eyes. For the first time in her life, she hoped the man poking around under her hood not only had good hands, but fast ones.