Barbara Dunlop: Hitched For The Holidays: Hitched For The Holidays / A Groom In Her Stocking

“Nice place,” he said, standing beside the couch which she’d forgotten to vacuum free of doggie hair. Fortunately it wouldn’t show much on his pale yellow short-sleeved dress shirt or tan chinos if he decided to sit down.

He was wearing a tie, bright green with tiny Scottie dogs silhouetted in black. No doubt it was the kind of gift people gave vets, cute but not too cutesy. Trouble was, he’d clearly been in a rush as it was tied wrong with the bottom length hanging longer than the top.

“Can I get you something to drink?” she asked, wondering where the heck her father was. He was so darn eager to meet The Boyfriend. Why wasn’t he ready to go to dinner? “I have diet cola, lite beer, mineral water and a bottle of champagne Dad brought to…”

She nearly said “celebrate.” More specifically, her father hoped to toast her engagement with the bubbly, although she’d never, ever given him reason to believe her nonexistent romance had progressed that far.

“Where is your father?” he asked.

“He took a nap.” Scratch her hope for a short evening. “Guess I should knock on the door to be sure he’s awake.”

“I’m awake and eager to meet your young man,” Wayne Ryder said, coming out of the guest bedroom and into the kitchen.

How could he say something that corny? She tried to cut him some slack because he’d never fully recovered from losing her mother in an auto accident nearly five years ago, but sometimes he talked as though the twentieth century had never come and gone. He’d definitely prefer to live in an age when fathers arranged marriages for their daughters.

“Eric Kincaid, sir.” He offered his hand with a deference that made her want to hug him.

“Eric, it’s a pleasure to meet you. Just call me Wayne.”

“My pleasure, Wayne, sir.”

Mindy wasn’t fooled. Her father was the alpha male locking horns with a young buck. He might approve of her new boyfriend in theory, but he was gearing up to interrogate him in the best—make that worst—CIA tradition. If she ever did find the right man, she was going to elope before her father got wind of him.

When he wasn’t confronted with her male friends, her dad was a sweetheart in spite of being too rigid. He wanted the best for her, but her future husband had to meet his impossibly high standards.

“Well, Mindy, let’s break open that bottle of bubbly before we go,” he said.

Dad had left all twenty or so of his business suits in shades of black, gray and navy at home. He’d gotten into the Southwestern spirit by wearing jeans and a navy knit shirt with a collar. He was even sporting a bolo tie, but his attempt to look casual was spoiled by his black wing tips. It didn’t really matter. Her father looked like an accountant even when he wore a bathing suit. Neither tall nor short, he was lean and slope-shouldered with the bland looks that made him easily forgettable. His face was long and narrow, always clean-shaven with smooth skin. Only the vertical lines on either side of his mouth gave away his age, those and the fact that his gray-brown hair barely covered his scalp, although a side part and a good haircut gave the illusion that he still had a head of hair.

“I’ll pass on that, sir…Wayne,” Eric said. “Mindy and I decided to take both cars tonight in case I’m paged.”

His excuse sounded lame to her, but Dad seemed to like it. A busy doctor had to stay sober and alert.

“Well, what do you say we get going then?” her father said, giving them their marching orders.

They filed out with Peaches dancing around their heels hoping to be included.

Mindy waited until the two men were out of hearing then hissed at her disappointed pet. “You’re the lucky one! You get to stay home.”

Her father went to the carport and got behind the wheel of her second-hand van with Ryder Reorganizing Inc. painted on the sides. He was going to follow the two of them, naturally expecting her to ride there in Eric’s dark red Tracker.

One thing was still bothering her.

“Ah, Eric, would you do me a tremendous favor?” she asked, coming around to the driver’s side of his vehicle before he got in.

His look suggested he already was, but he only shrugged.

“Your tie.”

“My tie?” He looked down at the black Scotties cavorting on green silk. “Too dressy for where we’re going?”

“Oh, no, it’s perfect. I love it. I just have this compulsion—well, maybe compulsion is too strong—but would you mind terribly if I fixed it?”

“Fixed it?” His hand shot up and tested the firm knot at his throat.

“Not fixed exactly, but I don’t want to be distracted by your long end. My dad is so sharp, I’ll have to be on guard every minute.”

“My long end? You’ve lost me,” he said.

“The skinny end is hanging lower than the top. I don’t want to be picky, but it would look so nice if…”

He lifted the two ends of the tie and frowned.

“Here, let me,” she said, wishing she’d never mentioned it.

Her fingers were nimble, at least her mother used to say so. She loosened the knot and pulled gently until the full part of the tie hung the right way. Then she tightened the knot and tucked it between the tips of his collar.

“It’s an adorable—no, make that handsome—tie. I’ve never seen one like it.”

Of course, she never bought men’s ties unless a client sent her shopping. Her brother, Dwight, much preferred a book or a tape as a gift, and her father’s taste was so ultraconservative she’d accused him of buying his ties by the dozen, each identical to all the others he owned.

“My ex-fiancée was into cute,” he said dryly. ‘This is the first time I’ve worn it.”

“Oh.”

Talk about stepping into a pile of doo-doo. He would probably bribe a waiter to ring his pager ten minutes into the meal. At least her father was leaving Monday. She only had to get through two full days of his questions, and there were all kinds of reasons why a busy doctor couldn’t spend time with his “girlfriend” on the weekend.

“Well, it is a cute tie,” she said, hurrying round to the passenger side before he changed his mind about going.

The ride to the restaurant was the longest twenty-three minutes of her life.

What had made her try to reorganize Eric? Fussing with his tie was so intimate, so intrusive, so dumb. But she did like being close to him. He smelled of vanilla with a touch of spice, and she’d never noticed how sexy his lips were. Of course, she could think of a better use for that pucker than signaling his irritation.

“I’m sorry about the tie,” she said as they pulled up to the trendy steakhouse with a great view of the Camelback Mountains. “I fidget when I’m nervous.”

“No problem,” he said, opening his door and walking around the vehicle.

He helped her out of the car and handed his keys to the valet.

“It’s what I do for a living. Organize things. Closets, drawers, parties, you name it.”

“Yes, you told me during Peaches’s last visit.” He looked directly at her and smiled. “Don’t worry. This will go okay. Your father seems like a nice guy, not an ogre anyway.”

“Yeah, not an ogre,” she said hopefully, crossing her fingers where he couldn’t see them.

Mindy had never been to Mountain Monty’s, but it was one of those restaurants that made all the tourists’ guidebooks. She should have read one before making the reservation. The first rule of the steakhouse was no neckties. Her father had to surrender the bolo he imagined made him look like a native, and Eric handed over the doggie tie she’d straightened.

A scantily clad hostess dressed in abbreviated saloon-gal garb with a panty-level denim skirt and a vest covering not much of anything, put the ties in a plastic bag and promised their return.