Not This Guy! Read online

  “You smell good, Mommy,” Lily said, yanking Angelina from deep thought.

  “I—” Angelina broke off guiltily. She drew in a breath before improvising, “I’ve been cooking. It must be the Parmesan.”

  “No,” Lily said matter-of-factly. “You don’t smell like cheese. You smell like flowers.”

  “Or musk.”

  The wry comment followed a beat of deep silence. Angelina looked at his face and found him feigning innocence. But he knew. He knew she’d put on perfume. And he was more certain than she was why she’d done it.

  Angelina found that annoying. And embarrassing. What was he doing here, anyway, sitting at her table, holding her daughter’s sleeping puppy in his lap?

  “What’s musk?” Lily asked.

  It was one of those moments that made a mother wish she’d opted for birth control. “It’s—” She stopped, quickly realizing that her pique was not with her daughter, but with the man who’d insinuated himself into their home and inspired her to put on the perfume in the first place. She smiled at the real antagonist with deceptive sweetness. “Why don’t you tell her what musk is?”

  He countered her challenge with a lift of his eyebrow and, after a second’s pause, he slowly tipped his head. A smile twitched at his mouth. “All right. I’ll explain it. I happen to know a little about musk. I am a veterinarian.”

  “I’m sure you’re an authority on musk, Dr.—” Damn it! Why couldn’t she ever remember his name? She’d been doing so well, sounding so witty—

  “Calder,” he supplied smugly before turning his attention to Lily. “Musk is a substance produced by the male musk deer, sort of like sweat. It has a very strong scent.”

  “Does it smell like flowers?” Lily asked.

  “No. It...actually, it doesn’t smell all that great, except to female musk deer.”

  Lily’s face screwed up in confusion. “You think my mommy stinks?”

  “No, sweetheart,” he assured the child with a chuckle of surprise at the question. “Your mom doesn’t stink.”

  “But you said she smelled like musk,” Lily pointed out.

  “Perfume manufacturers use musk as a base for some perfumes, but they add a lot of scents to it. Like the flowers you smelled in your mother’s perfume. The musk just makes the scent stronger and makes it last longer.”

  “Mommy can’t afford perfume. It’s too expensive,” Lily said.

  Oh, and thank you very much, Angelina thought. Why don’t you take out my checkbook and show him the black ink fading into red? “I was given a free sample at the mall last weekend,” she improvised quickly. “I was checking to see how it works with—”

  She stopped abruptly, leaving the sentence hanging, hoping he’d let the subject drop and wishing she’d never put on the perfume in the first place.

  He didn’t let her off that easily. “With?”.

  “My body chemistry,” she rasped, as though she had a popcorn hull caught in her throat. How had she gotten herself into this conversation, anyway?

  “Body chemistry?” His tone was suggestive.

  Flustered, Angelina explained, “You’re supposed to see how...a fragrance...interacts when you...have it on your skin a while.”

  “Whatever you’re wearing is interacting with your chemistry just fine,” he said.

  “I have to check on the tetrazzini,” Angelina said, hastily retreating to the kitchen. There was no actual need to check on the casserole, but she opened the oven door and peered inside as though without her close supervision the dish might meet with disaster.

  Next she foraged through the refrigerator for salad ingredients—anything to appear busy while she regained her equilibrium. It was just so unexpected having a strange man in her house discussing raccoons. And body chemistry.

  The sooner he and Lily were finished with the interview, the better.

  Snippets of their conversation reached her as she washed the lettuce. “—avid curiosity...very mischievous—”

  She turned off the tap and shook the lettuce to remove excess water.

  “Wild animal that shouldn’t be kept in captivity...”

  Surely he would run out of raccoon trivia soon. She washed the cucumber, turned off the tap, trained her ear for signs that they were winding up their discussion.

  They were...giggling. Technically, Lily was giggling. The vet was chuckling, producing a distinctly male rumble that ricocheted crazily through her nervous system.

  Angelina propped her elbows on the counter and her chin on her fists and feigned nonchalance as she spoke to them through the service window. “What’s so funny about raccoons?”

  “It’s not raccoons,” Lily said. “Dr. Calder’s tummy rumbled.”

  The vet grinned sheepishly. “It’s whatever your mother’s cooking in there that smells so good. I got busy today and worked through lunch.”

  “You could eat with us,” Lily said.

  “Oh, I couldn’t impose,” he said, but his objection was halfhearted, as if he wanted to stay but was declining out of good manners.

  He was waiting for her to talk him into staying, Angelina realized.

  “We’re having tetrazzini,” Lily persisted. “There’s always lots of tetrazzini.”

  “But...” The vet paused hopefully.

  Angelina wasn’t sure she wanted him to stay for dinner. There was a dangerous intimacy about sitting at the same table and eating from the same casserole dish with a man, especially one who’d been discussing body chemistry. Still, he had been thoughtful enough to bring Lily’s books, he’d helped Lily with her report and he’d changed her tire.

  “You’re welcome to stay,” she said. “Lily’s right. There’s more than enough to go around. It’s impossible to make a small batch of tetrazzini.”

  Although he appeared to want to accept the invitation, he hesitated, as though debating whether or not he should. That surprised Angelina. He didn’t seem the type who would ever wrestle with uncertainty, especially after almost inviting himself with that crack about how good the food smelled.

  “After all the favors you’ve done for Lily and me today, the least we can do is feed you a square meal,” Angelina said.

  His smile came too readily. “If you’re sure...”

  Angelina wasn’t sure at all, not with the funny things his smile did to her insides, but she was stuck with him through dessert.

  Dessert! What was she going to have for dessert? There wasn’t enough time to bake anything. Or make anything. Maybe there was something in the freezer. Yes! There was vanilla ice cream. Plain, but simple. She’d add some chocolate sprinkles, and a couple of vanilla wafers and pretend she was serving mousse.

  She finished the salad, put on the green beans and went into the dining room to set the table. Damn! The puzzle she and Lily had been working on for weeks sprawled over the tabletop. She couldn’t possibly move it without undoing all their work. They’d have to eat in the breakfast nook.

  “Mommy?”

  Angelina turned. Lily was standing in the doorway. “Princess woke up from her nap and Dr. Mike says—”

  Dr. Mike?

  “—she probably needs to go outside now. He said to ask if it’s okay.”

  “When a puppy’s gotta go, a puppy’s gotta go,” the doctor said, walking up behind Lily with the dog still cradled in his arms.

  “Then I’d suggest you hurry,” Angelina replied.

  He followed Lily to the door and said, on his way out, “Don’t worry, Mom. We won’t be gone long.”

  The last thing Angelina heard as the door closed behind them was Lily’s giggle.

  Angelina was setting the table when they returned a few minutes later.

  “Princess was a goo-oo-d puppy,” Lily announced.

  “Good for her!” Angelina said.

  “Are we using place mats?” Lily asked, making it sound as though she’d never eaten off a place mat in her life.

  “Yes,” Angelina replied, trying to hide her exasperation. “We’r
e using place mats. And you need to put Princess in her cage, wash your hands and put the silverware on the table, please.”

  With a shrug of acquiescence, Lily called the dog and led her away, leaving Angelina alone with the veterinarian.

  “You shouldn’t go to so much trouble on my account,” he said.

  “I’m not.”

  “But the place mats—”

  “Place mats aren’t trouble.” Angelina ventured a sly smile. “A tablecloth would be trouble.”

  Mike wasn’t gullible enough to believe her. The place mats were trouble. The fact that she’d put on perfume was trouble. The fact that her kid was cute was trouble. Her smile was trouble.

  All things considered, Mike figured that as far as Mrs. Winters was concerned, he was hip-deep in trouble and sinking fast. He was crazy for being here. He’d planned to hand off the kid’s schoolbooks like a relay runner’s baton and make a quick getaway, but here he was, getting ready to sit down to a home-cooked dinner. Home-cooked by the woman he’d vowed to avoid. Who was setting the table with place mats she didn’t routinely use and wearing perfume she usually didn’t wear.

  He watched her fold a napkin and position it just so on the mat, smoothing it with her fingertips before moving on to the next place and repeating the process. The aroma of the casserole baking in the oven floated in from the kitchen, redolent with spices and cheese.

  Lily returned and, after assuring her mother she’d washed her hands thoroughly, she put out the knives and forks. Mrs. Winters brought out trivets, centered them on the table and returned to the kitchen for the casserole.

  Trivets. Mike looked at the colorful woven straw circles. What was he doing here? He didn’t need a Mrs. Winters complicating his life, and it was obvious that, perfume aside, Mrs. Winters wasn’t thrilled about an unexpected dinner guest. But he’d practically invited himself with that comment about how good the food smelled, and then he’d blithely failed to take advantage of the opportunities Mrs. Winters had given him to decline the invitation.

  A few minutes later, the food was on the table, the casserole steaming, the bread tucked in a basket, the red tomatoes nestled in the lettuce like bulbs on a Christmas tree.

  Lily said grace, a simple, rhyming verse of prayer softened by her sweet voice.

  “The dish is hot,” Mrs. Winters said, dipping a spoon into the creamy noodle concoction. “I’ll serve your plate.”

  She smiled warmly at Mike as he gave her his plate, and he felt himself slipping deeper into the mire of potential trouble. Those eyes. That mouth. The way her dark hair curled against her neck.

  He should have gone home.

  Home? What was he thinking? Home, eating alone? Serving himself institutional-tasting stew taken from a can and using a veterinary supply catalog for a trivet? Watching reruns of insipid sitcoms?

  “Dr. Mike!”

  He blinked out of his reverie.

  Lily, holding the breadbasket, regarded him with an expression of exasperation. “Don’t you want bread? It’s vampire bread.”

  “Vampire bread?” he asked curiously.

  “The garlic keeps vampires away,” Mrs. Winters explained.

  “Vampires don’t like garlic,” Lily said.

  “You, uh, have a lot of problems with vampires in this neighborhood?” Mike asked Mrs. Winters, cocking an eyebrow.

  “Only the ones Lily saw in a scary movie at her best friend’s slumber party,” Mrs. Winters replied with an intriguing smile. “They’ve been fond of garlic bread ever since.”

  “I see,” Mike said, taking a slice. “Say, Lily, you’re not testing me, are you, to make sure I’m not a vampire?”

  “No,” Lily said with a giggle. “We always have vampire bread with tetrazzini.”

  “I’m not sure I’ve ever had tetrazzini before,” he said.

  “It’s just a creative way to use leftover turkey after the holidays,” Mrs. Winters said.

  “Daddy doesn’t like turkey sandwiches,” Lily said. “That’s why Mommy had to learn to make tetrazzini.”

  Though she tried to hide it, Mrs. Winters’s reaction to the mention of her ex-husband was immediate and intense.

  Mike pretended not to notice the sudden tension in her features as he sampled a forkful of the pasta and hummed an appreciative, “Mmm. This beats a dry turkey sandwich any day. It’s delicious.”

  “Thank you,” Mrs. Winters replied tersely, still noticeably unnerved.

  One more reason you should have gone straight home after work! Mike scolded himself.

  4

  NO MATTER how many times he read the list, the bottom-line analysis didn’t change. On a scale of one to six, six being the perfect score, Mrs. Winters scored a miserable one and a half.

  They hadn’t discussed her job, but Mike assumed, from her response to the idea of having to buy new tires, that she did not have a job that paid well. She had a child, which cost another point. She got half a point for not talking about her ex-husband, although the subject was clearly a sensitive one with her. No points for the car with bald tires, or the house with landscaping that cried out for some heavy-duty pruning.

  Her only full point came from the sixth-and-last item on the list: sexy. And that meant trouble, with a capital T, as far as Mike was concerned. After dinner last night, he’d helped with the dishes. Then they’d walked the dog together—he, Mrs. Winters and the little girl. And when Mrs. Winters walked him to the door, he’d damned near kissed her good-night.

  They’d stood in the entryway, suddenly at a loss for words after she thanked him for bringing the books and changing her tire and he thanked her for dinner. Not quite looking at each other, yet each acutely aware of the other. He, debating whether he should kiss her. She, probably debating whether she should let him if he tried.

  The moment had been charged with indecision; it could have gone either way. But Mike had stopped himself just in time, which, in retrospect, was a good thing, considering that he was having a hard enough time trying not to think about her without the memory of a kiss to contend with.

  “You’re lucky that piece of paper doesn’t burst into flame the way you’re scowling at it.”

  Roused from deep contemplation, Mike jarred to attention. “Suzie! Did you say something?”

  “Only that you’re giving that wall a look that would make a tyrannosaurus rex cower.”

  “I was just...thinking,” Mike said.

  Suzie cocked her head. “Must be some dark thoughts.”

  Mike dismissed the observation with a shrug. “Nothing a long-legged blonde couldn’t make me forget.”

  Sniffing her disdain for the idea, Suzie said, “Well, I can’t help you. I’m fresh out of long-legged blondes.”

  “The world,” Mike said dryly, “is fresh out of long-legged blondes.”

  “Maybe you should try redheads.”

  “I did. She’s in California with her jerk ex-husband.” He paused. “So how was bingo last night?”

  “Inez won an electric can opener.”

  “Again?”

  “The fourth this year.”

  “What does she do with them all—or should I ask?”

  “She gives them away as wedding presents, of course. Between her kids and grandkids, someone’s always getting married.”

  Someone else, Mike thought morosely.

  “Speaking of getting married,” Suzie said, “what’s going on with Tracy these days?”

  “She’s going crazy juggling classes and wedding plans. She’s trying to keep it simple, but—”

  “‘Simple wedding’ is an oxymoron,” Suzie said.

  “It is when the mother of the bride gets involved,” Mike agreed. “Mother called last night to inform me that the men will be wearing tuxedos.”

  “Tuxedos? Didn’t you just buy a suit for that wedding?”

  “Yes, I did. But suddenly all the men have to match—even the older brother who’s giving the bride away. I hate tuxedos—those dinky little studs, and those cum
merbund things, and bow ties—”

  He’d sworn the last time he wore one that he wouldn’t wear another except to his own wedding.

  “It’ll only be for a few hours,” Suzie said. “After all, your only sister doesn’t get married every day.”

  “Thank God!” Mike said. His baby sister was beating him to the altar.

  “The secret to tuxedos is to get a woman to put you together,” Suzie said.

  “I’ll manage the pants and shirt on my own and then throw myself on the mercy of the bridesmaids.”

  “Maybe one of them will be a long-legged blonde.”

  “Not a chance,” Mike said. “I’ve met both of them. One is engaged to a football player, and the other giggles constantly. Of course, she is a blonde.”

  “That’s the attitude,” Suzie said, giving his arm a pat. “Keep yourself open to possibilities.”

  Mike grunted noncommittally. A giggly coed a year younger than his baby sister wasn’t his idea of stimulating companionship. His taste ran more toward dark-haired women with kind brown eyes and a beautiful smile—or at least it had for the past eighteen hours. But it was Friday, and the weekend stretched ahead of him, filled with the promise of new women to help him get his mind off a certain dark-haired woman.

  “Are you ready for the first patient?” Suzie asked. “It’s Fairchild.”

  “He’s not ailing, is he?” Mike asked, concerned. Fairchild was a veterinarian’s dream—an immaculately groomed Afghan hound with an excellent disposition and beautiful manners.

  Suzie shook her head. “Routine exam. Rabies shot and heartworm preventive.”

  Mike grinned. “Bring old Fairchild in.”

  There were worse ways to start off a morning.

  Twelve hours later, he was perusing the menu in a trendy Italian eatery. He and his friend Jerry had spent the preceding ninety minutes in the bar nursing a bottle of Chianti while waiting for a table. Jerry had promised that the restaurant would be crowded and noisy, and it lived up to his promise. It was an upscale hangout for thirty-something singles. Like Mike. And Jerry, who had worked past the shock of the breakup of a six-year marriage and was determined to prove he still produced enough testosterone to turn a female head. He seemed to be equally determined that Mike should do the same, leaping into the role of Mike’s social planner following the wedding that didn’t happen.