last dish fragments into the paper bag and sank back on her heels. For the tenth time in as many minutes the front door jangled open.
It was him.
She didn’t question how she knew, she just did. And that scared the hell out of her. Despite her earlier thoughts to the contrary, she’d let herself care too much about someone in her life. If she needed a reminder of the consequences, the past few agonizing minutes provided ample proof.
Very quietly she eased backward until her fanny hit storage drawers. From the other side of the counter, she would be invisible.
Bustling toward the kitchen, Irene paused in midstride, her startled gaze flicking from Mary Lou to someone at the counter. Someone tall. “H-hi there, Mr. Chandler. What can I get you?”
“A Diet Coke please. No, better make that two. I’ll take one to Ms. Denton in her office.” The deep cultured voice soaked through the surrounding Texas twangs like wine through beer nuts.
Mary Lou’s pulse accelerated. The moment for revealing herself came and went.
Irene, bless her heart, never faltered. “Just let me turn this order in and I’ll get your drinks right away.”
“Take your time. I’m not going anywhere.”
Swell. Mary Lou swallowed hard and forced herself to think. Once John headed for her office with the drinks, she’d slip out the front door and think upan excuse later. She was simply too shaken—too vulnerable—to face her monthly meeting with the owner of Columbus Truck Stop today.
Thank God the lunch crowd had thinned. Thank God for Irene’s quick wit. Thank God Grace was lingering outside with the new driver for Valley Produce.
“Not that I’m complaining,” John said conversationally. “But worshiping at my feet might be more effective without a counter between us.”
She stopped breathing.
“The game’s up, Ms. Denton.”
Thanks a lot, God.
There was no hope for dignity. Nothing left to do. She rose slowly, her popping joints a crowning addition to her complete and utter mortification.
“How’d you know I was there?” she asked miserably, unable to meet his eyes.
A beat of silence. “I just knew.”
Her gaze snapped up. She caught her breath and stared.
John Chandler’s eyes were the color of freshground coffee, his hair a distinguished salt-and-pepper gray. His European-cut suit complemented his lean body and outdoorsman’s tan. Recently divorced and spectacularly rich, he was a debutante’s dream, a society matron’s fantasy—a truck-stop manager’s delusion. A delusion five years her junior.
His attention shifted to Irene, who hurried forward carrying two fizzing Cokes.
“Ah, thank you, Irene.” His charming smile disappeared the instant he turned back to Mary Lou.
“Shall we go to your office now, Ms. Denton?”
She noted the interested stares of nearby truckers and silently groaned. This had to be a nightmare. “Yes, of course.”
Untying her apron, she tossed it into a hamper and slipped around the counter. She sensed his intense gaze while he followed her through the diner, the adjacent minimart, the unmarked door next to the beer cooler, the short hallway sprouting several rooms on each side. By the time she reached her small office she was ready to scream from the tension.
John entered behind her and all the oxygen left her lungs. As discreetly as possible, she placed her desk between them and settled in her high-back chair.
His eyes flashed. “Feel safer now?”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” she bluffed, forced to dilute her advantage by craning her neck. “Please, have a seat.”
He placed the drinks on her desk, sat in the guest chair and crossed his leg with an elegance that should’ve looked sissy, but made her feel fluttery inside.
“Come on now, don’t play dumb. We both know you’re anything but. My portfolio manager says I should clone you to shore up my other weak investments.”
The compliment surprised and warmed her. She’d worked very hard to
It was him.
She didn’t question how she knew, she just did. And that scared the hell out of her. Despite her earlier thoughts to the contrary, she’d let herself care too much about someone in her life. If she needed a reminder of the consequences, the past few agonizing minutes provided ample proof.
Very quietly she eased backward until her fanny hit storage drawers. From the other side of the counter, she would be invisible.
Bustling toward the kitchen, Irene paused in midstride, her startled gaze flicking from Mary Lou to someone at the counter. Someone tall. “H-hi there, Mr. Chandler. What can I get you?”
“A Diet Coke please. No, better make that two. I’ll take one to Ms. Denton in her office.” The deep cultured voice soaked through the surrounding Texas twangs like wine through beer nuts.
Mary Lou’s pulse accelerated. The moment for revealing herself came and went.
Irene, bless her heart, never faltered. “Just let me turn this order in and I’ll get your drinks right away.”
“Take your time. I’m not going anywhere.”
Swell. Mary Lou swallowed hard and forced herself to think. Once John headed for her office with the drinks, she’d slip out the front door and think upan excuse later. She was simply too shaken—too vulnerable—to face her monthly meeting with the owner of Columbus Truck Stop today.
Thank God the lunch crowd had thinned. Thank God for Irene’s quick wit. Thank God Grace was lingering outside with the new driver for Valley Produce.
“Not that I’m complaining,” John said conversationally. “But worshiping at my feet might be more effective without a counter between us.”
She stopped breathing.
“The game’s up, Ms. Denton.”
Thanks a lot, God.
There was no hope for dignity. Nothing left to do. She rose slowly, her popping joints a crowning addition to her complete and utter mortification.
“How’d you know I was there?” she asked miserably, unable to meet his eyes.
A beat of silence. “I just knew.”
Her gaze snapped up. She caught her breath and stared.
John Chandler’s eyes were the color of freshground coffee, his hair a distinguished salt-and-pepper gray. His European-cut suit complemented his lean body and outdoorsman’s tan. Recently divorced and spectacularly rich, he was a debutante’s dream, a society matron’s fantasy—a truck-stop manager’s delusion. A delusion five years her junior.
His attention shifted to Irene, who hurried forward carrying two fizzing Cokes.
“Ah, thank you, Irene.” His charming smile disappeared the instant he turned back to Mary Lou.
“Shall we go to your office now, Ms. Denton?”
She noted the interested stares of nearby truckers and silently groaned. This had to be a nightmare. “Yes, of course.”
Untying her apron, she tossed it into a hamper and slipped around the counter. She sensed his intense gaze while he followed her through the diner, the adjacent minimart, the unmarked door next to the beer cooler, the short hallway sprouting several rooms on each side. By the time she reached her small office she was ready to scream from the tension.
John entered behind her and all the oxygen left her lungs. As discreetly as possible, she placed her desk between them and settled in her high-back chair.
His eyes flashed. “Feel safer now?”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” she bluffed, forced to dilute her advantage by craning her neck. “Please, have a seat.”
He placed the drinks on her desk, sat in the guest chair and crossed his leg with an elegance that should’ve looked sissy, but made her feel fluttery inside.
“Come on now, don’t play dumb. We both know you’re anything but. My portfolio manager says I should clone you to shore up my other weak investments.”
The compliment surprised and warmed her. She’d worked very hard to
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