Fool for Love (3 page)

“Devlin Monroe. Daisy’s oldest grandson. Heir to the Monroe legacy. Runs J. T. Monroe’s Department store and a few other local businesses. Watches over his family like a hawk. Mess with his family and you’re dead meat.”

“Sounds like a scary guy.”

“Not scary, just influential.”

They stopped talking long enough to climb back into the vehicle.

Monica buckled the passenger seat belt and sighed. “Listen. I didn’t mean to make Dev sound like a tyrant. He’s the brother of a good friend of mine. It’s just … the man has a major stick up his ass. A shame really. Otherwise he’s the perfect catch. Rich and frickin’ hot.”

“Good looking, huh?” Not that Chloe cared. It’s not like she was looking to date anytime soon.

“Drop-dead gorgeous,” Monica said. “You do know where all the important parts are, right?”

Chloe blinked.

“Steering wheel, gas pedal, brake…”

She smirked. “I know how to drive. It’s just been a while.”

“Okay then. Keep the pedal to the metal until the exit for 105.” She glanced sideways and smiled as Chloe peeled onto the interstate. “Just watch out for squirrels.”

THREE

By the time they reached Sugar Creek the sun was setting and Chloe was running out of steam. She’d been up since 6:00 a.m. and hadn’t slept well for three nights running. She hadn’t eaten much either, operating mostly on coffee and adrenaline. Now that they’d reached their destination, even the wonder of the forested peaks and the high of driving had worn off. All she wanted was to eat a sandwich and go to bed. So what if it was only five thirty?

Monica had other ideas. One block into the quaint town, she instructed Chloe to make a left, then pointed to a bright blue barn with white trim—
Leo’s Auto Repair
. “Just pull in here and let me tell Leo about our change of plans.”

“Honestly, Monica, ordering in pizza is fine.”

“Forget it. After hearing you describe all the dishes you’ve made over the past few weeks, I’m jonesing for a full-course, professionally prepared dinner.”

“I could cook—”

“Not on your first night here. I’m taking you out. The Sugar Shack has the best food in town. Great atmosphere. You’ll love it. Plus we can order champagne and toast your special honors diploma.”

“It’s not that big a deal.”

“It’s a huge deal, and you know it.”

Which was why she’d been especially crushed when Ryan had peed in her Cheerios. Or rather her cake. “You’re right,” she said, sitting straighter and forcing a smile. “I deserve a celebration.”

“Atta girl.” Monica hopped out. “I’ll be quick. I’d call, but if he’s working on a car he won’t answer. When the man focuses on engines, he’s oblivious to all else.”

“How late does Leo work?”

“Depends. Tonight the garage is open until six.”

“What about Oslow’s?” Chloe asked, eyeing the general store across the street.

“Same.”

“Mind if I peek in? I’d like to get an idea of what they stock so I can plan Mrs. Monroe’s meals for the week.” She was staying with Monica and Leo tonight, but tomorrow Chloe moved in with her new employer. She wanted to impress the woman from the get-go. Sharing a well-thought-out menu seemed like a good start. She noticed then that Monica had a goofy smile on her face. “What?”

“I just love how you never do anything half-assed.”

Chloe laughed. “Me? Up until the Culinary Arts Institute, I never followed through with anything. Just ask Dad or Ryan.”

Monica waved them off. “I’m not talking about commitment. I’m talking about passion. Since I’ve known you, whatever your current interest, you pour your heart and soul into the project. Your enthusiasm is infectious. And admirable.”

Chloe swallowed an emotional lump and smiled. “I’m really glad I came.”

“Me, too.” Monica squeezed her hand. “Now run over to Oslow’s. If you’re not back when I come out, I’ll join you.”

“Deal.” Chloe slid out of the Suburban, smoothed the wrinkles from her mid-thigh dress, and crossed the deserted street.

Sugar Creek’s sole grocery looked like something out of a Norman Rockwell painting. Like Leo’s garage, it resembled a converted barn. Only it was bigger and varnished an appealing shade of maple brown. A big green sign announced in white letters:
OSLOW’S GENERAL STORE—established in 1888.
Swinging out from the top gable was a brightly painted rooster displaying a much smaller sign that simply read:
GOOD FOOD.

Chloe hooked her handbag over her shoulder and entered the store, smiling when a bell tinkled to announce her arrival.
Cute
. She closed her eyes and breathed deep.
Heaven
. Spices and freshly ground coffee, scented soaps and fresh herbs. She caught a whiff of fried chicken and … apple pie?
Must have a ready-made food section,
she thought as she opened her eyes and took in the layout.

Monica was right. Oslow’s was smaller than their hometown IGA, but not by much. Instead of a sprawling building, it was compact and three stories high. The hardwood floor creaked under Chloe’s wedge-heeled boots as she made her way up and down the narrow aisles. Folksy Muzak floated softly from hidden speakers.

The shelves were crammed with stock—lots of local specialty foods, but a ton of basics, too. Deli counter, dairy section. To her amazement, she only spied a couple of shoppers. The markets in Manhattan were crowded every day at every hour. Here the sparse shoppers smiled and nodded in greeting but other than that didn’t pay her much mind. Probably assumed she was just another tourist.

She was lost in thought, mentally cataloguing stock and sifting through recipes when she rounded the soda and chip aisle and rammed hard into another shopper. Half the contents of his wicker shopping basket tipped out and crashed to the floor.

“I’m so sorry,” she squeaked, dropping to her knees to snag a runaway can of pork ’n’ beans. A box of cornflakes, a bag of chips, frozen dinners. He had to be single. Or lazy.

“Don’t worry about it,” he said, stooping to help.

Their fingers connected around his Vermont smoked and cured summer sausage. Chloe froze—her skin tingling with sensual awareness—then flushed when she noted the devilish tilt of his mouth. She wasn’t sure which was more disconcerting—his sexy smile or her reaction to his touch. Not to mention he was freaking gorgeous. Chocolate hair, blueberry eyes, a beefcake body clad in grey canvas khakis and a plaid oxford shirt, the long sleeves rolled midway up his muscled forearms. Not that she was checking him out.

Heat flooded her body as she realized she was doing just that and he was doing the
same
!

“My sausage—”

“Excuse me?” She followed his gaze and saw in horror that she was still clinging to his processed meat. “Oh.” Cheeks burning, she scrambled to her feet, wishing he hadn’t helped by grasping her elbow. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d been so flustered by a man’s innocent touch. “You should buy some fruit,” she said, noting the contents of his basket.
Wow
.
That was lame
.

Again with the sexy half smile. “What would you suggest?”

“Bananas? Apples?” She glanced at the fresh-fruit cart to their left. “Melons?”

“I like melons.”

She waited for his gaze to shift to her chest. It didn’t. He was looking directly in her eyes. Somehow that was worse.

He snagged a small honeydew and put it in his basket.

“What are you doing?”

“Buying fruit?”

“But you didn’t thump it.”

He raised a brow.

Men
. She moved in and gave the melon a squeeze. “Too hard.”

“I can honestly say I’ve never gotten that complaint.”

Okay. Definite flirting here.
She should leave. But the image of Ryan canoodling with his tart caused her to stand her ground. Her wounded ego needed affirmation that she was still desirable to the opposite sex. Problem was she hadn’t flirted in a long time. “Let me give you some tips on how to handle melons.”
Oh, brother
.

“I’m all ears.”

Just then his phone rang. He pulled an Android from his pocket, glanced at the incoming call. “Damn.”

Obviously, he needed to take it.
Perfect.
This way she could exit before making a
complete
fool of herself. She quickly squeezed and thumped three melons, putting the second one in his basket. “Nice meeting you,” she whispered as he tried holding off the person on the other end of the line.

“Wait,” he called as she backed away.

“Remember. Four food groups,” she said, then made a beeline for the front door.
Four food groups?

Lame, lame, lame.

*   *   *

“If this is a bad time,” Jayce said, “I can call back.”

“No. Now is good. Now is … great.” Devlin watched her sweet ass go, telling himself not to follow. To what end? A one-night stand? She didn’t strike him as the type. She’d blushed too easily, and her attempt at flirting had been awkward. Not that his had been much better. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d been inspired to flirt. But, Christ, seeing her in that short flowery dress and those knee-high boots, the long dark hair and that
face
. Like any man wouldn’t be reduced to a drooling idiot.

Yet for all her sensual beauty, she seemed oblivious. An even greater turn-on. Melon Girl was a nice girl and, since he’d never seen her before, no doubt a tourist. Which meant she’d be gone in a day or two. He chalked up the encounter to the sexiest five minutes of the last three years and felt thankful for it.

Oh, hell.
Maybe Luke was right. Maybe he did need to get a life, because damn, that was pathetic.

“Sure you don’t want me to call back?” Jayce asked.

“What? No. Go on.”

“I was apologizing for the delay. Wanted to be thorough.”

“I appreciate that,” Devlin said, balancing his food basket on a pickle barrel.

“I’ll give you the basics and e-mail the full report. You’re not going to like it.”

“I’m not surprised.” Today had been full of frustrations. His dad had refused to comment on Devlin’s report until he’d slept on it. Gram had refused Devlin’s offer to bring her dinner, saying she’d already committed to an evening of chili and Canasta with the Larsens. And when he’d broached the subject of her chosen
companion,
she’d brushed him off.

“Chloe Madison,” Jayce began. “Thirty-one. Single. Never been married. Born and raised in Marlton, Indiana. Moved to New York City straight out of high school. No siblings. Mother died when she was fourteen. Father’s loaded. Funded her education and picked up the bulk of her rent for, get this, ten years.”

“Who studies to be a chef for ten years?”

“She didn’t study to be a chef until this past year. We’re talking two years at Juilliard, two and a half at NYU, a year—almost—at a fashion design institute, back to NYU for six months, different major, then a shitload of workshops and courses on various subjects.”

“What the hell?” Devlin scratched his head, baffled by the inconsistency. “Did she flunk out? Get expelled?”

“Dropped out.”

Even worse.
“So what? She’s unmotivated? Unfocused?”

“Fickle maybe. One of those people who can’t decide what they want to do. So far she studied for and/or worked as an actress, a singer, a playwright, a fashion designer, fashion photographer, model, spokesperson, publicist, and food critic. You can read some of her critiques on a popular e-zine. I’ll send you the URL. They’re pretty good.”

“Sounds like Gram hired an impulsive free spirit.” The kind of woman who pushed a personal hot button.

“There’s more.”

“Naturally.”

“Looks like her rich daddy cut her off two years ago, about the same time she moved in with a guy. Hold on. Ryan Levine. That’s his name. Fifteen years her senior. Works for an international resort company. Efficiency expert. Big bucks.”

“From rich daddy to sugar daddy.” Gold digger—another hot button. “Let me guess. Levine covered her tuition for culinary school.”

“She did, however, finish what she started this time. Graduated from the Culinary Arts Institute four days ago.”

“Four
days
? So she doesn’t have any practical experience as a chef.”

“Doesn’t mean she isn’t a hell of a cook. Plus, Dev, you’ve gotta see this girl.”

“Considering she once worked as a model and has the ability to wrap rich men around her finger, I’m guessing hot.”

“Blond hair. Brown eyes. Kick-ass curves.”

“Sounds right up your alley.”

“She’s up every man’s alley.”

Devlin was more interested in the sweet-faced brunette who’d essentially told him to eat healthier. Drop-dead beautiful—in an Ivory-soap-girl kind of way. He thought about the glimpse he’d gotten of her pink panties as she’d scrambled on her hands and knees for his pork ’n’ beans and cursed a hard-on that wouldn’t die. “Dammit.”

“Here’s the part you won’t like.”

“I haven’t liked any of it.”

“You’ll hate this. Had to dig deep, since she had her record expunged.”

“Record?”

“Arrested twice. Once for shoplifting. Once for disturbing the peace. Both times charges were dropped.”

“That doesn’t make me feel better.”

“Implies innocence.”

“Or not enough evidence.”

“I knew you’d say that. That’s why I called in a favor. Details forthcoming.”

“Meanwhile Miss Madison is also
forthcoming
.”

“For what it’s worth, Dev, I don’t have a bad feeling about this woman.”

“I do.” All told, Chloe Madison sounded like his worst nightmare.

“Want me to fly up and run interference?”

“My problem to tackle.”

His friend laughed. “Lucky you.”

“What about Levine?”

“Lover boy’s transferring to France.”

“Left her high and dry,” Devlin guessed, “and now she coming to mooch off Gram.”

“Overall, I got the impression she’s a nice girl, well liked. Just restless and reckless.”

“Translation: an irresponsible user. Twice arrested.”