Her Fifth Husband? by Dixie Browning Page B

to tell him not to bother, but even more than she wanted her ruined shoe back, she wanted to see him again. Considering the way they’d met—considering even more her deplorable record with men—it didn’t make a speck of sense. But there it was. All she had to do was look at Jake Smith to forget everything she’d ever learned about men. He wasn’t even all that handsome, technically speaking. But then, fancy looks, fancy clothes, fancy cars and fancy manners weren’t worth a lick of spit when push came to shove.
    At least nothing about Jake Smith was fancy.
    Nothing except for the way he made her feel.
    Besides, he’d already seen her at her worst, looking like a raccoon with eye makeup smeared over half her face, wearing an ancient caftan that should have been relegated to the rag bag years ago. And that was even before he’d risked a hernia by carrying her down all those stairs.
    Had anyone ever noticed that good Samaritans could be sexy as well as useful?
    â€œI suppose as long as you’re coming this way, you might as well drop it off,” she said as graciously as possible.
    â€œSee you in about an hour, then. You need anything I could pick up for you? I’ll be passing by a couple of shopping centers.”
    Her mind fogged out on her. All she could think of was her hair, her face—the awful thing she was wearing.
    â€œNo? Okay, see you later then. If you think of anything you need, call me on my cell phone, all right? You have the number.”
    He waited. She waited. Neither of them spoke until he said, “Where are you, anyway, lying down?”
    â€œI’m halfway between the living room and the kitchen,” she told him as she clumped her way toward the sofa.
    â€œHave you iced up lately? Look, the sooner you quit fooling around, the sooner you’ll be able to drive again.”
    She was tempted to ask if that meant she had a choice between driving or fooling around. Fortunately, common sense intervened, because the choice was not even close.
    He’s for Lily, you dunce!
    Â 
    Nearly two hours passed before Jake pulled up in front of the lavender house with the dark green trim. He glanced at the rearview mirror and raked a hand through his hair. He was overdue a trim, but at least he was freshly shaved. Restless, he’d woken about five and gone next door to the office, where he’d made inroads in the stack of paperwork on his desk until the roofers had started hammering.
    Shortly after that, Hack and Miss Martha had come in and he’d gone next door to shower and shave before the crew arrived to finish painting. A few more days, he thought as he headed north on the bypass, and the old place was going to look pretty damn good, if he did say so himself.
    He happened to be wearing the new polo shirt Timmy had given him for his last birthday. Jake had taken it as a hint that his wardrobe could use some attention—at least the kid hadn’t given him a necktie. He’d even splashed on a little cologne, God knows why. Keep the stuff from going bad in the bottle, probably. He never used it.
    Some forty-five minutes later he reached into the back seat for the paper cone of flowers. They’d been right beside the checkout counter at the grocery store. He’d made a quick stop, figuring Sasha probably needed a few basics—more frozen vegetables, maybe some juice, a six-pack of canned drinks and a box of doughnuts. Milk, too, because bones needed calcium. And flowers because—because, well, why not?
    He punched the doorbell and then tried the knob. It turned and the door opened. “Sasha? Don’t get up.” A security specialist, he thought about mentioning her unlocked door but decided against it. Right now she didn’t need to be jumping up every time the doorbell rang.
    With two plastic sacks and the six-pack in one hand, the flowers in the other, he peered into the living room. “There you are,”