Carrie Alexander - Slow Ride

Her eyes speared Tucker. “Dare you.”

“I’d be happy to.” With a blameless innocence that was as fake as a nugget of fool’s gold in Rory’s estimation, he caught the dangling charm in his fingers and took the key from his pocket. It slid into the lock and turned with a snick, springing the miniature suitcase open. He pulled out the slip of paper printed with their number—178—and a section to fill out with their contact information for the raffle.

Rory stared at Tucker. He didn’t seem surprised. Nor disappointed. What an actor.

Mikki applauded drunkenly. “I knew you two were a match.” She gestured at her sister’s shawl and the similar hue of his shirt. “You see? Color-coordinated. It must be destiny.”

Rory forced a smile. “Since when do you believe in destiny?” Mikki wouldn’t trust her future to something as flimsy as destiny; she believed in fighting tooth and nail for what was right.

“I don’t.” Mikki’s nose crinkled. “But you do.”

Rory snorted, though she couldn’t argue very strenuously. She’d been raised with Emma’s belief system, which incorporated homespun common sense with the wisdom of the Dalai Lama, the teachings of the Eternal Sunshine Church of Peace, Love and Understanding, the Bible, runes, Tarot cards and even the occasional visit from a Jehovah’s Witness who’d knock on the door at Garrison Street and soon find him or herself with an invitation for supper.

“You two work this out and I’ll go up and get our prize,” offered Tucker.

As soon as he was gone Rory said, “I’m going to kill you,” to her sister.

Mikki had no fear. “How come? Tuck’s a wonderful guy.”

“He didn’t want to try his key on my lock.”

“Could have fooled me.”

“Trust me. I’m not his type.” Or so he wanted to think.

Mikki focused with one eye, her head wavering. “And you know this how?”

“He doesn’t even remember me,” Rory admitted. She dropped the necklace, Tucker’s key still inserted, into her bag. “We met once, when Lauren and I threw that party for you and Nolan after your elopement. Tucker looked right at me tonight without so much as a soupçon of recognition.”

“You’ve changed a lot, Rory. And my marriage happened years ago.” Mikki’s one open eye clouded. “Ancient history. I barely remember those days myself.”

“You are such a liar. You’ve never resolved your feelings for Nolan, but at last you two have a second chance to work out the marriage.”

“Second chances are for wishy-washy women. That’s so not me.”

“You know what Mom would say, don’t you?”

They looked at each other and repeated, “‘The wheel never stops turning. What goes around, comes around.’”

Mikki scoffed. “That and a chorus of ‘Hakuna Matata’ might buy me a cappuccino at Starbucks.”

Although a lot of the crowd had cleared out of Clementine’s, the remaining guests were gathering around the stage where Maureen was about to announce the raffle winners. Rory and Mikki joined the applause as she read off an approximate total of the money they’d raised tonight for the building fund. An impressive amount. The transitional house for troubled girls in crisis, already under construction, was ensured a good foundation.

“We’ve done our duty for Baxter House.” Rory grabbed Mikki’s arm. “Let’s get out of here before Tucker comes back.”

“This is why you don’t have a lover,” Mikki protested as she was towed away. “You back up and turn around at the first bump in the road.”

“As opposed to you, the Pint-Size Steamroller,” Rory said. “We all have our ways.”

Tucker’s voice stopped them. “Where are you going?”

“Home,” Rory said, not stopping.

“The ladies’,” Mikki said, stopping. With a wriggle, she tugged the hem of her mini over her thighs. “You keep an eye on Rory for me.”

Reluctantly, Rory stopped and turned toward Tucker, clasping her shawl and purse against her abdomen. Despite the big fans whirring up near the vaulted ceiling, the club was quite hot. Damp strands of hair clung to her neck and cheeks. Her makeup had probably melted long ago.

“I put our number into the raffle.” Tucker held out two tickets. “And we won a couple of movie passes.”

“Super.” She peeled away one ticket. “We won’t even have to sit together.”

His brows pulled down into a frown and for an instant she was hit with a wallop right beneath her rib cage. Regret…longing. Sharp enough to steal her breath.

Was she so afraid of being rejected that she wouldn’t even take a chance?

“Or we can go as friends,” she amended. Safe territory.

The tightness in Tucker’s jaw relaxed. “That’s better.”

Of course. He was a nice guy, Nolan’s buddy. He didn’t want to hurt her feelings, so he was determined to do the friends thing. She could be a good sport and go along with it, no problem. They could both pretend that he hadn’t snacked on her neck and squeezed her ass under the guise of dancing, then changed his mind when the fog had cleared.

She could also pretend that she didn’t know about his attempt to avoid her with the switched keys.

“Entry to the grand prize raffle is officially closed,” Maureen announced from the stage. She pointed into the crowd. “You, gorgeous. How about coming up here to spin me ’round?”

A blond beach god vaulted up to the stage and gave Maureen a twirl before proceeding over to the barrel holding the numbered tickets. “Oo-oh,” Maureen said into the microphone, fanning her face. “Suddenly I’m so dizzy.”

The bantering continued while the hunk cranked the handle. The mesh drum whirled. Rory craned her neck toward the swagged alcove that opened to the bathrooms. Mikki wouldn’t slip away, would she, out of a misguided attempt to throw Rory and Tucker together?

He’d put his hand between her shoulder blades and nudged her toward the crowd.

“The grand prize tonight is an all-inclusive, three-day weekend at Painter’s Cove in Mendocino. Our lucky couple will stay in one of their luxury suites—”

Several in the crowd tittered. Maureen wagged a finger and put her mouth up against the microphone, dropping her voice to a husky intimate tone. “Sleeping arrangements to be determined by private consultation.” She went on to list amenities such as private pool and spa, plus a number of gratis appointments for massages and facials and a tee time at the golf course. Finally she signaled for a drumroll before reaching into the basket.

To a cheer and the crash of a cymbal, Maureen waved the chosen bright pink ticket overhead. Her chiffon sleeves fluttered. “And our winner is—” she unfolded the paper “—number one hundred seventy-eight!”

Rory was poking through her purse, looking for Mikki’s keys.

Tucker gripped her elbow. “That’s us. One seventy-eight.”

“Oh, no. I’m sure you’re mistaken. We’re one eighty-seven…”

“Tucker Schulz,” Maureen read off the ticket. “And Rory Constable! Woohoo, Rory!” She put a hand over her eyes and searched the crowd. “Is that you, honey? Come on up and get your prize.”

Suddenly, Mikki was pushing Rory toward the stage and Tucker had her hand, helping her up the steps. She felt herself flushing, going awkward and tongue-tied, the way she often did when she was the center of attention. Her desire to be more self-assured was not always matched by the execution.

“Rory is the owner of San Francisco’s own Lavender Field, the chain of bakeries that supplied the desserts that those of you not on low-carb diets have been enjoying tonight.” Maureen’s boisterous laugh rang out. She gave Rory a hug before returning to the mike. “And Tuck is an electrician who’s promised to wire Baxter House free of charge. Let’s give our lucky couple a hand, folks. We couldn’t have selected a more deserving pair.”