Shirley Jump - The Virgin's Proposal

She pulled off her glove and shook. His hand was slightly rough and callused, but large, capable and strong. And bare of a wedding ring, she noted. “Katie Dole.”

She saw him try to hold back the laughter, but it burst out all the same. “You’re joking, right?”

“I wish.”

“No relation to the fruit company, I presume?”

She shook her head, the foam head bobbing. “I’m not that lucky.”

“Are you related to Jack Dole?”

She nodded. “He’s my oldest brother. Then there’s Luke, Mark and Nate. There are a lot of bananas in the Dole family tree.”

He laughed. “Well, Miss Dole, it was a delicious pleasure to meet you.”

His hand slipped out of hers and with it went a warmth that had nothing to do with the hot day. She scrambled for a witty reply…nothing. Dressed as a piece of fruit, she felt a tad out of her element as a woman. Short of tucking herself into a massive bowl of ice cream and drizzling chocolate sauce down her torso, she didn’t think her banana costume made her look very appealing to a man like him.

So she stood there like the village idiot as he waved and got back on the motorcycle, tucking the flowers into the compartment behind him before roaring away.

That man was definitely dangerous, always had been, if his reputation was any indication. The kind of guy who was out of her league, sexually, physically…every way. A man who lived on the brink. Katie had never lived anywhere close to the edge. She was too afraid of hurtling over it and into a canyon of heartache.

As if he had some kind of death wish, Matt pushed his Harley to the limit. The town where he’d spent what some would call his formative years rushed by in a blur of impressions: the Langdon Street sign that still bent to the right, eleven years after his convertible had given it a new shape; Amos Wintergreen’s farm, where Matt and his friends had tipped cows until Amos’s Labrador drove them off his land; the county jail, where he’d spent many a night paying for what his father called “bad choices.”

The wind whipped at his jacket, pushing him to turn around and go back to Pennsylvania. He had a business there, a life. He didn’t need to be in Mercy, he told himself.

With a determined twist, Matt revved the engine of the 1974 Sportster and the sleek machine beneath him lunged forward.

The image of the woman in the banana suit popped into his head. The memory erased the growing tension in his neck. He chuckled. She must be mighty brave to put on such a public display in a small town, especially this small town.

His imagination was drifting toward what she’d look like beneath the peel when the bike shuddered and the engine began to cough and stall. Matt squeezed the handlebar brakes and brought the motorcycle to a grinding, definitely-bad-for-the-engine halt.

“Damn!” he swore at the defiant mass of steaming metal. The head gasket had blown and was spewing oil everywhere. Slick, dark liquid sprayed over his boots, across his T-shirt, trickled down the sleeves of his leather jacket. He set the bike on its kickstand, grabbed a rag from the toolbox strapped to the back and rubbed off the worst of it.

He was still two miles away from what used to be home. How ironic. Instead of the triumphant return he’d envisioned, he’d have to limp back to his parents’ house, hauling a several-hundred-pound pile of metal to boot. He swore twice more, cursing the fates resoundingly. But they didn’t listen. They’d given up on him long ago.

He began pushing it along the side of the road. The sun beat down, cooking him inside his leather jacket. He glanced at the cooler strapped to the back. A waste of time. The container had been empty of anything carbonated for the last ten miles. What he wouldn’t do for an ice-cold beer, or two or ten, right about now.

It had been eleven years since he’d dropped to the bottom and picked himself up, but some days—especially this day—the siren call of alcohol was loud and insistent.

For the thousandth time, Matt wondered why he’d thought it would be a good idea to come back.

At the end of the day, Katie headed into the air-conditioned shop, grateful she and Sarah had scraped together enough money to repair the aging cooling system. She peeled off the suit, stripping down to her shorts and tank.

“We had three orders for fruit baskets, so our idea boosted business. Not enough, though.” Sarah seated herself on a stool, popping open a can of soda and handing it to Katie, who promptly guzzled down half. “Was it as much fun as it looked?”

“Oh, so much more fun. I can’t believe you talked me into doing that.” Katie slipped off the yellow felt coverings on her sneakers. “You should try it sometime.”

“I’d be glad to. But the suit won’t fit for a couple months!” She patted her stomach, the mountainous bulge announcing her pregnancy, now in its ninth month.

It had been three years since Jack, Katie’s oldest brother, had married Sarah. Ever since, Katie had been awaiting the day a tiny voice called her Auntie Katie. Her brother Luke’s daughter was eleven and living in California, too far away to spoil. It wasn’t a family of her own, but it was the next best thing. Buying bibs and stuffed animals also kept her from thinking too hard about her own life—not that there’d been much of one to think about. She’d been stuck in glue for the past year, not moving forward with anything other than the store. Work was the only thing that filled the emptiness that crept around her when she flipped the sign to Closed.

It also helped her avoid the one thing she feared. Failure. Katie had yet to be a success at anything. She’d had good grades in high school, but not good enough to get a college scholarship. She’d joined the debate team and publicly frozen at her first competition. She’d dated the captain of the football team, but had been dumped at the altar. And now, the store—her dream—was close to financial ruin. Another imminent failure, if she didn’t take some action.

Katie propped open the door and dragged in the sign. “I’m glad to hear we had a few sales. We needed them.”

“I know. The road construction isn’t helping. The rent—” Sarah stopped when the door jangled.

Katie immediately recognized the woman who entered the store. Olivia Maguire, owner of the only interior design business in the Mercy area. Tall, thin and dressed in silvery-blue, she sailed into the room, straight for the counter. “Is that your design in the window?” she asked Sarah, pointing to an exotic silk display.

“Yes, it is.” Sarah said.

“Good. I’ll take two of those. As fast as you can get them to me.” She paced the store, her movements quick, exact. “And one of these,” she pointed to an elaborate vase filled with antique silk roses. “And three of those.” She gestured to a design Sarah had put out yesterday, a retro planter with bright flowers. “How soon can I have them?”

“We’d be happy to create those for you.” Katie proffered her hand when Sarah remained mute, mouth agape. “I’m Katie Dole, one of the owners. This is Sarah—”

“Yes, I know. I believe we’ve met once before, at a charity function or something.” She waved her hand vaguely. “Besides, it’s a small town. Everyone knows everyone and their business.” Olivia gave Katie’s hand a short, firm shake. “I’m Olivia Maguire. I own Renew Interior Designs. Right now, I have three clients who need arrangements. I drove by, saw that interesting one in the window and decided to stop.” She spun on her heel, taking in the shop. “I like what I see. I normally use the Lawford shop, but I’d like to give yours a try, if you have time in your schedule.”

“Certainly.” Katie shot a glance at Sarah. “We could probably have those arrangements to you in three days.” Sarah turned, grabbed the order pad and started writing.