Downhome Darlin' & The Best Man Switch (28 page)

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Authors: Victoria Pade

BOOK: Downhome Darlin' & The Best Man Switch
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Grant hadn't meant to do it, hadn't planned it. But this kiss seemed so obvious, so natural. Mitzi's lips were warm and soft and giving, her scent an intoxicating mixture of perfumed soap and toothpaste that made him dizzier than the strongest, sexiest French perfume would have.
Suddenly, he realized this was exactly what he'd wanted to do since that morning when he'd first laid eyes on her in her lime-green dress. Before he'd messed things up. And as he held her in his arms, luxuriating in the soft pliant feel of her body against his, he vowed not to foul things up again.
As that determination crossed his mind, he felt Mitzi lean backward, then back some more.
He opened his eyes in time to see Mitzi's green eyes widen in a shock that mirrored his own. They were moving through space, as in a dream, still attached at the lips, each reaching out but finding nothing to cling to but each other. In the next second, they were splat on the floor, landing against the bathing-suit rack they had toppled over. Nylon and spandex rained down on and around them as the rack collapsed.
Yet as he untangled himself from the sea of plastic hangers, helped Mitzi to her feet and reassembled the rack, he didn't feel awkward, even when he saw Leanne Cummings, the sportswear clerk, come running over. Instead, he felt liberated.
“Oh, my,” Mitzi breathed, tearing her gaze away from his to start picking up stray swimsuits. Then she looked back at him, her green eyes heartbreakingly liquid and beautiful.
Which made it all the more surprising when her eyebrows knit together and she suddenly barked out at him, “Are you nuts? What was that for?”
He grinned. “You have to ask?”
Leanne joined them, two red blotches in her cheeks indicating that she'd caught most of their spontaneous romantic moment. “Oh, Mr. Whiting! I'll pick these up.”
Grant nodded his appreciation as he quickly helped tidy things. “And when Miss Campion finishes shopping,” he instructed Leanne, helping to move the rack to just the right spot, “please give her a fifty percent discount.”
Then, before another glance into Mitzi's eyes could tempt him to take her in his arms again until they'd overturned every clothes rack in the store, Grant pivoted on his heel and headed back to his office, waving to a More-land man in a black suit as he passed.
The grim-faced fellow made him laugh. “Security's terrible here,” Grant informed the fellow blithely. “We call it shoplifter heaven.”
Grant strolled on, feeling as if he were walking on air. Even discovering the person he least wanted to see, sneaking through the back employee entrance, failed to dampen his spirits. Just the opposite. A plan began to formulate in his head the minute he saw his brother.
He greeted Ted with a clap on the back as they went up the rear stairs. “Imagine running into you here.”
Ted stiffened. “Okay, I know it's a little past ten, but I had to take my truck in for an oil change. You can't put things like that off, you know.”
Grant nodded. “Of course not. Anyway, don't worry about it. You got here just in time.”
Ted eyed him suspiciously. “In time for what?”
Automatically, Grant began ordering his thoughts. “I have four things I need from you, Ted.”
His brother began to speed his pace. “If you really need me, I'll be in my office.”
Before Ted could scamper away, Grant launched into his plan. “First, write up a memo telling all employees that there will be no layoffs, and that no change in the benefits package is in the works.”
Ted looked doubtful. “I haven't written a memo since—”
“It's like riding a bicycle,” Grant assured him. “Second, there is a prospectus on my desk. I wrote it up to make our store look subtly unattractive to the Morelands. I need your opinion.”
“Oh, sure,” Ted said, brightening a little. He was always glad to give an opinion. “Anything to help out.”
“The next thing is to tell Herman Little to start handing around his union petitions. Tell him he can walk around the store with a sandwich board if he wants.”
Ted's eyebrows drew together. “Whoa! Are you sure?” Grant laughed, which only made his brother look more confused. “What's the fourth thing you want?”
“Your boat.”
Ted froze. “My...?”
As Grant stared into his brother's eyes, he realized he hadn't witnessed such an expression of horror since watching Janet Leigh in the shower scene from
Psycho.
 
THE TROUBLE WITH FISHING, Mitzi decided as she sat with her legs flopped over the edge of Brewster's bass boat, a forgotten fishing rod perched in her hands, was that it gave people way too much time to talk. Apparently, Brewster had spilled all his fish stories, along with more than she ever wanted to know about chunking and winding, and now his topic of choice seemed to be Grant.
“Grant's mother died when he was little—about five, I think—and his father passed away while he was in college. He's been the bulwark of the Whiting clan ever since.”
Imagine. She'd been kissed by a bulwark.
The trouble was, Mitzi couldn't let this intriguing subject drop, either. “To me he seems rather unpredictable.”
The kind of man who would meet a woman and tell her she was brittle and devious, and then two days later take that same woman into his arms and kiss her silly right in the middle of a department store. Every time she relived the moment his warm lips captured hers, liquid heat surged through her.
“Grant? Unpredictable?” Brewster chuckled. “He's as reliable as an almanac.”
She'd never had a reference book sweep her off her feet before. Nor had she imagined that the mere touch of skin against skin could create such a furor of sensations. Cut loose? Since that kiss, she wondered if perhaps she hadn't been cut loose from the land of reason. Her emotions were as hard to straighten out as a Rubik's Cube. Foremost in the jumble of feelings was her desire for another of those kisses. Then there was an equally strong dose of distrust. After all, he was still Grant Whiting, the bridesmaid's nemesis. And how could she feel so giddy over a man who couldn't even speak to her in public without causing some kind of scene? Who, even though their every encounter ended in calamity, kept turning up in her thoughts? The man was more annoying and harder to shake than a Bee Gees tune.
And now Brewster's information about Grant's family tugged her in a whole new direction. Mitzi was no stranger to tragedy. Both her parents had died while she was in her twenties, and it had taken years before she felt she was on an even keel. But to have lost both parents, and then have to go through a painful divorce...
Next to her, Chester, who was lying on his back, sunning his naked pink belly in the afternoon sun, shifted and let out a satisfied snort. At least he was enjoying their lake cabin getaway. Maybe because he wasn't focused on the sexy department store proprietor they'd left behind. Chester, apparently, was more interested in his tan.
“Did I tell you Grant was third in his class in college?” Brewster asked. Then he went on to add that Grant was also on the boards of several prominent Austin charities. A pillar of the community.
She supposed she should be glad that they were discussing Grant and not, say, cleaning out fish guts, which had been the topic of their conversation earlier. But the more Brewster sang Grant's praises, the more Mitzi wondered what she was doing out here in the middle of nowhere with nothing but a bass freak and a dachshund for company, when Grant and his expert lips were back in the city.
In fact, she was contemplating diving into the water and making a frantic swim for shore when Brewster looked up. “Uh-oh,” he breathed. “Boat motor.”
Mitzi squinted into the distance.
“Well, I'll be,” Brewster said. “Look who it is—one of the Whiting boys! Ted, I guess.”
Mitzi looked, and couldn't believe it when she saw the familiar blond hair and blue eyes come into view. “No, it's Grant,” she said, leaning forward. You'd think after blathering about his friend all afternoon, Brewster would at least be able to tell him from his brother. “Grant!” She practically hopped off the end of the boat as the sleek vessel pulled close.
Brewster was even more surprised. “Grant? I can't believe you pulled yourself away from the store on a weekday.”
“Why not?” Grant asked as he slid up beside them. “It's a beautiful day, and I happened to hear that you and Mitzi were out here.”
“But you're such a workhorse,” Brewster said.
Grant looked wounded. “Me? Why, there's nothing I like better than to pick up and leave my troubles on the doorstep.”
How refreshing.
Unbidden, the memory of their kiss popped into Mitzi's head, and she glanced up at Grant to find his blue eyes burning into hers. Obviously he was thinking the same thing.
“You're in time to chunk for smallmouths with my new grubs,” Brewster told him excitedly. “Bring your rod?”
Grant tried to appear as if he hated to disappoint Brewster. “Dam it, I forgot my rod and reel. I was hoping just to get in a little swimming and relaxation.” He turned back to Mitzi, who, even standing in the middle of a breathtaking lake, had not the slightest difficulty putting Mother Nature to shame. “Would you be interested in going over to Miller's Hole for a dip? It's very close to here.”
Mitzi was already prepared to heave Chester onto Grant's boat when she remembered Brewster. He was, after all, her host. “I might enjoy a break,” she said to Brewster, as if fishing had exhausted her. “Wouldn't you like to go, too?”
“To Miller's Hole?” Brewster asked disdainfully. “There's nothing but perch over there.”
“Oh, but—”
She was about to tell him that he could swim, or just sit and talk to them, but Brewster was having none of it. “I like to save all my energy for that wily competitor, Mr. Bass,” he said gravely.
Mitzi felt a rush of warmth as Grant hoisted her and Chester onto his boat. As they roared away, with Chester rigidly nosing his pointy snout off the bow like a proud figurehead, she tried to tell herself that she was so glad to see Grant because she was tired of hearing about jigs, spoons and spinnerbaits. Not because she had the hots for him.
But who was she kidding?
“Bring your suit?” he asked, looking her up and down.
“Of course.” She was wearing it under the oversize T-shirt and jean shorts she'd also bought today. “Thanks for the discount, by the way.”
He sent her one of his heart-stopping grins. “Knocked over any clothes racks lately?”
“A true gentleman wouldn't bring up that subject.”
“A true gentleman wouldn't have ravished you in a department store.” He waggled his eyebrows rakishly.
“The Don Juan of retail,” she joked.
They dropped anchor in a small cove that formed a beautiful clear blue swimming hole. The water looked so cool and inviting Mitzi almost stripped off her clothes as willingly as Gypsy Rose Lee. Then she remembered Grant. She wasn't overly modest, but usually she was hesitant to appear in a bathing suit in front of strangers, so she held back as Grant quickly doffed his T-shirt and dived into the water. She hadn't been able to tell his swimming trunks weren't shorts. In swimming attire, as in most everything else, men had it easy.
She took off her shorts and left her T-shirt on, dangled her legs over the side of the boat and enjoyed the view. And she wasn't talking about the scenery. Forget clear blue water and towering pines. Her eyes were helplessly drawn to watch Grant's glistening, muscled torso doing an easy backstroke.
He stopped, treading water, and aimed his dazzling grin at her. “Don't tell me you're afraid of sharks,” he teased.
Funny, there was a time when she'd thought he resembled a shark, but now that she knew him better she couldn't imagine anything more preposterous. More like a cuddly harp seal.
He swam closer. “Is anything wrong?”
When she looked into his eyes, there was no sharklike or wolfish intent; it was something else entirely, and she racked her brain trying to find the right word to describe his look. He was looking at her as if he had wooing on his mind. He had taken an entire day off of work to woo her.
The realization made her feel as flustered as a teenager. “I was just thinking that maybe we should be wearing life jackets.”
“Can't you swim?”
“Yes, but considering our track record of disaster, it might be wise to take a few precautions around the water.”
“I was a lifeguard in high school,” he told her.
It wasn't difficult to imagine him as the Greek god of the public pool, breaking the hearts of scores of sunburned schoolgirls. “You already saved me,” she told him.

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