Friday Mornings at Nine by Marilyn Brant Page A

of town on some romantic cruise? Was he in desperate need of a tennis partner for a game tomorrow? Hey, she’d play a set or two with him. She flipped her hair off her shoulders and tried to keep from further imagining what that would be like. Both of them very hot, very sweaty and—
    “I wondered if you might have a handheld trimmer I could use, just for the afternoon. I was about to charge mine, but I’d foolishly left it on the basement floor where my ravenous dog found it and chewed through the power cord.”
    She laughed, surprised. “Really? Sure. Ours may need to be charged, too, but it might still have ten or fifteen minutes of juice left in it.” She studied him, all long-limbed and relaxed. Except for his neck where she could see the tendons tensing. She rethought her reaction. “I—I don’t mean to make light of what happened, though. Is your dog okay?”
    He broke into a full grin. “Thankfully, yes. The cord was unplugged. But Sharky’s a feisty one. I’ve come to expect these little disasters.”
    “You named your dog Sharky?”
    “Yep. He’s a two-year-old German shepherd I got from Pet Rescue a month ago. Still not quite polite enough to meet the neighbors. We’re going to obedience classes,” he explained ruefully. “But that devil dog is all mouth. His goal in life is to chew on everything, dig up my backyard and make a nuisance of himself. He’s got the energy and the manners of a hyperactive teenager.” Aaron’s affection for the pooch radiated off him. “Don’t know what I’m going to do with him.”
    “He probably just needs to get laid,” she muttered.
    “Pardon?” he said, his deep blue eyes blinking at her, the amused expression returning full force.
    “Nothing. Sorry.” She flushed and race-walked toward the garage so she could grab the trimmer. She needed to make sure her own mouth didn’t get her in trouble here. It wouldn’t have been the first time, but for some reason she didn’t want to come across to this man as “flamboyant and frivolous” (yes, another of Jon’s flattering descriptive phrases for her). She considered trying to say something serious, but she couldn’t think of anything that didn’t sound insipid.
    She snatched the device off the dusty metal shelf and swiveled around to walk back to him, but he was only two steps behind her. “Oh, okay,” she said, almost breathlessly. He was standing so close! “H-Here you go.” She placed it carefully in his hands.
    “Thanks, Tamara.”
    Ahh, she loved the way he said her name.
    “I’ll bring it back tomorrow.”
    “No rush.” She sent him a casual nod. “Keep it as long as you like, Aaron. I’ve got my work cut out for me here. I’m not doing any detail stuff until I can see my cherry tomatoes in clear rows and be assured they won’t be overrun by the Bristly Bad Boys.”
    He nodded and strolled back toward the garden with her. “I think your cherry tomatoes look great,” he said, appraising them. He raised a single eyebrow in her direction before reaching toward one very ripe, very red Sweet Chelsea on a branch near them. “May I?”
    God, he was so polite. “Be my guest.”
    He plucked it, rubbed it against his jeans and held it up for her to see before popping it into his mouth and chewing. “Mmm, good.” His lips were so…so…indescribably intriguing.
    Huh.
    “So, they’re to your satisfaction then?” She feigned a mild interest in his reply and barely glanced at him. Inside her chest, though, her little heart picked up the pace.
    He stopped in place and waited until she met his gaze. “I wouldn’t worry about perfect rows when you’ve got a product that tastes this good.” Then he broke eye contact with her and scanned the yard. “Why aren’t the guys helping you out here? Work? School?”
    She explained Jon was on yet another business trip and Benji was officially away at the University of Texas.
    He whistled, low and smooth. Lordy, the man was Sexiness