Shirley Jump - Rescued by Mr Right

“My truck broke down.” He thumbed in the direction of the Chevy. “Could I use your phone? I’d call a tow truck myself but my cell battery is dead, too.” Irony, in its finest form. All at the same time, his career, his reputation, his vehicle and most of his major electronic gadgets had imploded.

His mother, who believed anything coming out of a fortune cookie was gospel, would say it was a sign. A sign of what, he didn’t know.

“Where were you going?”

“Maine.”

A slight smile crossed her face. “Maine. I’ve never been there.”

“That’s something we have in common.” He took a few steps forward, bringing his waist into contact with the short white slats of the gate. A white picket fence, he mused. The stereotype of home.

A stereotype that didn’t exist, something Noah knew too damned well.

“Noah McCarty,” he said, thrusting out a hand. This wasn’t involvement. It was being polite.

She hesitated, still clutching the sign to her chest, then after a second, took a step forward, as hesitant as a baby bird. When her hand met his, warmth infused his palm, skating up his veins.

“Victoria Blackstone,” she said, her voice as quiet as the light, teasing wind. She released his palm, then unlatched the gate to let him in. But as he slid through the two-foot opening, he noticed a wariness in her eyes, an uncertainty in her movements, and realized how he must look, stepping out of his beat-up truck.

That morning, he’d left his apartment in a hurry, without shaving or taking the time to don anything more complicated than a pair of old, paint-stained jeans and a raggedy T-shirt he’d gotten free at some festival.

“Nice to meet you,” he said, to show her that his mother had raised him with a few manners.

“Come on in. You’re welcome to use my phone.”

“I appreciate it.”

As they started up the walk, she glanced down at his boots, caked with mud from a foray into the woods two days ago. A trip that had been unsuccessful, resulting in Noah knee-deep in the soggy earth and his nephew, Justin, gone, as if he’d disappeared into the ether. “Do you mind wiping your feet? I have this thing about dirt on the floor.”

A woman with rules. He hadn’t met one of those since he’d left home at fifteen. “Will do. And I promise not to sneeze on the receiver or belch aloud or do anything else that might be even remotely disgusting or male.”

A smile spread across her face. It wasn’t an ordinary smile, the kind you saw on strangers passing you on the street. Or the kind people gave when they were handed a fruitcake at Christmas. It was a smile that had legs, one that softened into her cheeks and raised them into bright apple shapes.

The kind of genuine smile Noah hadn’t seen in a long, long time.

A slight blush whispered over her features. She turned away and continued up her walkway. Behind him, Noah heard a familiar patter of itty-bitty paws.

Oh, no. The dog.

Before Noah could grab him, Charlie hurried past, tossing a growl at Noah as he did. Then he did a Jekyll and Hyde, shifting his demeanor to friendly. Cute, even. He darted up, thrust his nose against the bare leg beneath Victoria’s capris, and introduced himself. Victoria gasped, then stopped, gaping at Charlie. “Oh my goodness. What a cute dog! Is he yours?”

If she only knew the personality lurking beneath that pixie canine face, the wolverine in Disney packaging. “Meet Charlie,” Noah said, gesturing toward the pedigreed pup, who had wisely withdrawn his nose and planted his butt on the concrete beside Noah, whip-thin tail swishing loose stone dust from side to side. Looking for all the world like he might actually be a nice dog.

Ha.

“Well, hello, Charlie.” When her soft gaze connected with Noah’s, he thought a man could fall into those eyes as easily as a down bed. “He seems attached to you.”

“Not really. He knows which side his bread is buttered on and who’s got the butter.” Then he recovered his manners, thought of her. “Are you allergic to dogs? If you are, I can make him wait in the truck. He snuck out because he thinks everyone loves him.”

Victoria’s laughter was rich and melodic, a one-person vocal orchestra. “Maybe he’s never met anyone who disagrees.”

“Considering the way my mother’s brought him up, you might be right. She dropped him off at my house with only one instruction—indulge his every whim.”

Victoria considered Charlie, the sign once again clutched to her chest. “I’ve never had a dog. Or a cat.” She spoke so quietly, he wondered if she was including him in the conversation. “Or come to think of it, a goldfish.”

“I’ve always had a pet, usually one I found somewhere. Before my mother left Charlie with me, it was a cat. I had Bowser for five years and before him, it was Max and Matilda, a couple of dogs who thought playing fetch was for sissies,” Noah said. “I seem to be the type that attracts strays.”

The words left a sharp pain in their wake. He’d done far too much of that rescuing the unrescuable thing.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t even think to ask you,” she said. “Would you like a glass of lemonade? Iced tea?”

It was simple hospitality, but for some reason, it hit Noah hard. Maybe it was the beautiful woman. The ocean air. The fact that he hadn’t dated anyone in a long, long time. Either way, he felt something begin to stir within him, as if his old self were being resurrected.

That was crazy. He’d been out in the heat too long. Inhaled some of the radiator fumes.

“Lemonade would be great, thanks.” Beside him, Charlie let out a high-pitched bark.

Victoria laughed again. “And some water for you, Charlie.”

She left the sign on the porch, facing the words inward. As he scraped the soles of his boots against the welcome mat and then entered the house, he realized he’d never seen a home this tidy. She was clearly one of those women who took a scrub brush to everything in her life.

The tidiness he could understand, but the decor stopped him cold. He might as well have stepped onto the set of Happy Days. From the chrome kitchen set down the hall to the boxy floral sofa in the living room to his right, he could practically see the Cunninghams in every detail. Though he didn’t know her well, he couldn’t quite wrap his mind around the delicate, caprisclad Victoria Blackstone and these outdated rooms. “Behave yourself,” he whispered to Charlie. “No peeing on her favorite chair. Or eating her shoes. Or gnawing escape hatches in the walls.”

Charlie lifted his nose in the air and jaunted forward, as if he’d never consider such a thing and as if he hadn’t just done all three things to Noah’s apartment last night.

“The phone’s over there,” she said, pointing at a white wall phone in the kitchen.

“Thanks.” He entered the room, noting the checkerboard pattern on the linoleum and the porcelain sink that was nearly as big as a bathtub. Something simmered in a Crock-Pot on the counter, filling the room with the scent of beef. He picked up the receiver, turned it to use the underside, then paused, noticing the coiled cord and ring of numbers. “Is this an antique?”

“Antique?” She glanced at the phone, laughed, then turned back to the avocado-colored refrigerator to pull out a pitcher of lemonade. Slices of lemon danced in the pale liquid. No doubt fresh squeezed. “Probably. We’ve had it in the house forever. My parents were a little wary of the whole touch-tone revolution.”

Wary of touch-tone phones? What century was this house living in? For a minute, Noah felt as if he’d stepped back in time, transported to the world he’d inhabited when he was a little boy. When his father had been around and dinners had been on the table every night, waiting for them to create a family at the circular table. The phone would ring, and his mother would let it go, because dinner was a sacred time. Anyone who dared interrupt it better have a damned good excuse.