Any Man of Mine (Holmes Crossing Book 5) Read online

  "And that's bad because...?" James asked.

  "It's not bad. In the whole issue of guy-dom, women and their needs aren't as important as risking your neck."

  "I see. And you've done extensive studies on this?" I could hear the amusement in his voice.

  "A lifetime of growing up with brothers," I said. "I grew up hiding my Barbie dolls under the bed so my brothers couldn't put them in their homemade rockets and launch them into the nearest pond. I'd have to make sure they didn't get hold of my hair-spray pump so they could put food colouring in it. I spent half my teen years finding hiding spots for my diary so I wouldn't have to listen to them reading it out loud to their friends."

  I was talking too much. Nerves, I figured. Nerves and the tiny cleft in his square jaw, not to mention the way his hair waved over his forehead. And for some reason he made me think of Wyatt, which was ridiculous. Wyatt wouldn't be caught dead in a suit.

  Bad word choice.

  I stopped there, shaking off memories that had become pernicious and annoying.

  Memories that reminded me of another reason to leave Holmes Crossing. I needed to get away from those memories.

  I caught a glimmer of a smile on James's face. "I can see that your life has been difficult," he said.

  "Not difficult. Just challenging." Time to turn the conversation around. "What about you, James? Any family?"

  "One sister. She's nineteen and a challenge, but of the female sort. She used to live with my aunt and uncle but she moved out as soon as she could. I get the occasional call on my cell phone, but otherwise I hear little from her."

  "No parents?"

  James shook his head, then smiled at Helen when she brought his dinner. She shot me a meaningful look, then, thankfully, left without lingering to ask questions.

  "And how is your father doing?" he asked, as he unwrapped his cutlery from the paper napkin. "I understand he had a heart attack?"

  He knew my dad?

  "He's doing okay. Listless, though. I've been trying to take care of him."

  "He's lucky to have such a loving daughter."

  "I do love him," I said with a shrug. "And I love my brothers. I just wish they would let me carry on with my life without so much interference."

  "Now how could a brother interfere with your life? I've tried to do the same with my sister with no success."

  "Oh my goodness, let me count the ways."

  "Gimme some examples," he asked cutting up his chicken.

  "Well for one thing, they're hopelessly unimpressed with the idea that I might actually leave town, and they'd have to fend for themselves."

  "You're leaving town?"

  I fiddled with my cutlery, wondering why I told him what I had. "Nothing is written in stone yet. I'm waiting to hear back from a place I applied to, and that makes my brothers terrified. They're afraid I might leave them on their own. So the last few years, they've been going into full on matchmaker mode."

  He sprinkled salt over his potatoes and gave me a crooked smile. "Matchmaker mode?"

  So I told him about some of the "guys" my brothers have brought around in the hopes I would fall in love and embrace guydom both literally and figuratively. He laughed in sympathy and told me about some of the "guys" his sister had dated. I discovered that he was worried about her and how protective he'd been when they were growing up.

  I liked him more and more and wondered less and less how he knew so much about me.

  “So, what were you reading?" I asked, glancing at the book he had placed, face down, beside him.

  "C.S. Lewis."

  Seriously? Not only reading, but reading a theology book? This guy seem too good to be true.

  "Do you read fiction?" I asked him.

  "I like murder mysteries, legal thrillers, and maybe the occasional romance novel." The twinkle in his eye told me that now he was pulling my leg.

  "Oh isn't that adorable," I said laughing. "Which romance novelists are your favourite?"

  "Stephen King, Dennis Lehane."

  "Oh, you like the best-selling ones," I returned.

  "I'm basically a mush at heart," he said. His grin and the way his eyes crinkled when he smiled, all combined to make my heart do a tiny flip.

  "So seriously now, what else do you like to read or watch?"

  I still wasn't sure why I was asking all these questions.Despite the fact that I couldn't remember him, he was easy to be around. We talked about our favourite authors and compared favourite books and movies while we ate.

  I discovered he liked action movies and big fat books. I told him about my rom-com obsession and appreciation of literary fiction.

  He had moved to Holmes Crossing to start a new business, and had been talking to Eric Lougheed just this afternoon about a loan. He was also looking for a place to rent until he could buy something.

  He wanted to settle in Holmes Crossing.

  That was unfortunate.

  "Besides the occasional movie," he asked, "does anything else exciting happen in this town?"

  "Tomorrow night the bakery is having a special on raisin buns," I offered.

  "I might have to take my heart medication for that one," he said. His half smile increased the pace of my heart. "I was hoping to ask you to come with me on some kind of outing, but somehow raisin buns weren't in my fantasy."

  Outing. Was that the same as a date?

  "But I would be willing to settle for a movie tomorrow, if you are." His dark brown voice washed over me like rich chocolate.

  I would say that movie equals date and I would say that I would be a silly woman if I turned this down. "I think I could be satisfied with that," I said, not sounding very suave or sophisticated.

  His smile bloomed in a decidedly appealing manner. "That sounds good. Let me know where you live and I can pick you up."

  I imagined him pulling up to the house, getting out, and coming up the walk just like he was now in full view of my brothers.

  "No. I can't do that," I said, holding up my hand as if to stop him.

  "Pardon me?" he asked, clearly confused.

  "No. I'd like to go with you to the movie," I amended hastily. "But it would be better if I meet you there. I live quite a ways away and it’s gravel roads and if you have a car, it's kind of hard on the car. Besides, I don't give good directions."

  I took a breath and hoped that my sudden babbling wouldn't convince him I was a complete idiot. I was trying to stave off imminent disaster. If my brothers met him and he wore anything resembling the suit or a tie he had on today, they would ask him embarrassing questions and make him feel like a geek and he would get scared off. Or worse yet, they would bring that hairy Jigs guy over again as an antidote so he could wink at me and make more strange comments and watch me work. No thanks.

  "I would prefer to come pick you up," he insisted.

  "No. Let's keep things casual," I said, trying to make up lost ground. After all, I still didn't really know who he was, only that he was kind, considerate and had a younger sister that he cared about.

  Which raised his suitability quotient to "very."

  "I'll meet you there."

  He gave me a slow-release smile that made my heart dance. "Okay. It's a date."

  "A date? Are you sure? Don't you want to run a background check on him?" Tracy's voice on the other end of the phone made me question my judgement, but I quashed that.

  "I don't need to. I'm going with my social worker sixth sense and he's made it through that."

  I took a last sip of my third coffee of the day and set the mug beside the other two on my desk as I switched my phone to my other ear. It had been one of those skip lunch and hope for supper kind of days. I'd been going steady since I got to the office early and had finally got a chance to talk to my friend, and tell her what had happened all because she had ditched me.

  "He claims to know you, but if you don't know or remember him, shouldn't you be concerned? Shouldn't you be thinking stalker?"

  I didn't like how Tra
cy's questions brought out those niggling doubts about the first date I've had with a halfway decent man in this town for the past few years.

  "The only stalker I need to worry about is Steve Stinson, and he's been laying low," I said, tucking my phone under my ear as I signed off on a set of forms. Steve Stinson was the biological father of Kent, a little boy we had in our care. Though I wasn't Kent's caseworker, I had been initially involved when Tracy brought Kent's neglected state to my attention. In Steve's twisted mind, I was the person responsible for keeping him away from Kent. So I was the lucky recipient of his phone calls. "Besides, Eric Lougheed knows James and was talking to him about his business. I'm pretty sure it would be on the up and up if he's dealing with Eric."

  "Eric doesn't like dogs," Tracy said. Which, as far she was concerned, made any of his judgments questionable.

  "That doesn't mean that James doesn't," I said, doodling the letter J on my notepad. "He seems like a perfectly respectable citizen."

  "Where does he live?"

  "He said he's looking for a place to rent. Somewhere out of town."

  "Wow. That makes things crystal clear."

  I stifled a sigh. Tracy was getting as protective as my brothers. I hadn't told them about this date. As far as I was concerned, they were on a "need to know" basis and this they didn't need to know. For a long time. Maybe never. Well, maybe I'd invite them to the wedding. They could be ushers.

  "I think I can spot sincerity when I see it," I said. Bobby, my secretary, tapped on my door and handed me a sheaf of phone messages she had taken while I was at a case conference earlier that day. I groaned when I saw the thick stack.

  "But the most crafty psychopaths are the ones that present a normal personality at first," Tracy said.

  I waited until Bobby left, then rested my elbows on my desk, massaging the bridge of my nose. I could feel a headache from too much coffee and not enough calories coming on.

  "I'm not calling off the date and he's not a psychopath," I said.

  "I wouldn't mind meeting him so I can see for myself."

  "Tracy, you're getting as bad as my brothers." I was feeling angry and, if I was honest with myself, defensive. "He's a nice guy. He's good-looking. He wears a suit and he reads books that have chapters and no pictures. A book by C.S. Lewis I might add. I wish you would trust my judgment."

  "Sorry. I don't want to see you hurt."

  "It's just a date. What's to hurt?"

  Tracy sighed. "Your heart. I know what a romantic you are."

  "You should be happy about this, Tracy. If he turns out to be a caring, sensitive man, I might end up sticking around," I said, sorting the messages Bobby had given me into important, very important and panic.

  "Don't tell me you're dating him so you can make me happy."

  "Actually, Tracy, I'm not that self-sacrificial..." My voice trailed off as the name on one message caught my attention. Steve Stinson.

  "What's wrong?"

  "Nothing. Hey, I gotta go. But just to reassure you, I won't elope without consulting you first."

  "Thanks, hon," Tracy said dryly. "Nice to know you'll keep me in the loop. But just to be on the safe side I'm Googling his name."

  "Google your little heart out," I said.

  We said goodbye and as I disconnected, I let myself heave a sigh. I so did not want to talk to Steve Stinson. He not only made me angry, he gave me the creeps.

  But if I didn't talk to him, he would be hassling Emily and Adam, Kent's foster parents. I usually passed him on to Oden, Kent's caseworker, but Steve wasn't clueing in to the fact that I could not help him. So it was just easier to deal with him myself.

  Kent had been placed in Emily and Adam's home when his natural mother, Juanita, ended up in the hospital courtesy of Steve Stinson. Juanita was trying to get her life back together and so far, it looked as if she would succeed. Juanita had grown up with her own difficulties, but thanks to Emily and Adam she was learning good parenting and life skills. In a few months we would be reassessing her situation. As long as Steve, who claimed to be Kent's natural father, stayed out of the picture, she had a chance at a new life.

  I put his message to one side and dealt with some of the more pleasant phone calls, such as Andrew Newton, who used curse words as filler when he didn't know what else to say. Pleasant was all a matter of perspective in this job.

  3

  "Next time we must do the symphony," James said as he held the door of the movie theatre open for me Thursday evening. I had forgotten to check what the movie of the week was. Multiplex and small town are not two words that go together. Consequently my notion of a quiet evening in the intimacy of a darkened movie theatre had been chased away by exploding cars, gunshots and a high body count, all cheered on by a large contingent of adolescent boys.

  "It was okay. I don't mind action movies." I shivered as the spring evening air washed over me.

  I unfolded my sweater, which I had been carrying over my arm.

  "Here, let me help you with that." He was right there, pulling the sweater around my shoulders, his hands lingering a few seconds longer than they had to, but not so long it could be perceived as a come-on.

  Perfect gentleman. I sighed, wanting to draw out the evening.

  "Thanks." I hesitated. My car was parked around the corner. James had come from the other direction. I wasn't ready to end the evening, but my insistence on meeting him at the theatre made it difficult to figure out what to do from here.

  "Is there anywhere we can go for a cup of coffee or something?" James asked as the shouts of young boys, pumped up by the action of the movie, broke into the moment.

  "There's a vending machine at the Petro-Can down the street," I said as a joke. "Or the bar across from us."

  "Pass."

  Better and better. "We could go for a walk. There's a lovely paved trail not far from here that follows the river for a ways."

  James tilted me a crooked smile. "That sounds like a good idea." He tucked his hands into his pockets as we walked away from the theatre. "And again, I have to apologize for the movie. I was sure they were showing that indie film I had been wanting to see."

  I knew which movie he was referring to and, to be honest, I preferred the action adventure movie we had just seen. I wasn't big on watching the "dissemination of a relationship within the confines of cultural biases" or something like that.

  "Small movies like that only stick around here a day or so, if and when they come," I said. "The owner is a huge fan of indie films and tries to sneak one in from time to time. They don't go over well."

  James gave me a puzzled glance. "I'm guessing you're not a fan?"

  I lifted my shoulders in a careful shrug. I didn't want him to think I was a complete Philistine but I knew I had to be honest.

  "Sorry. No."

  "That surprises me. You’re-" he stopped there, biting his lip then flashed me another smile. I wondered what he was going to say. "Sorry...you seem like the kind of person that would like that type of film."

  And how did he deduce that about me after seeing me only once before?

  "I've enjoyed a few of them, but many seem to be what I would call artistic temper tantrums," I said, part of me pleased that he thought I was more cultural than I was. "I think art should serve the community, not be a vehicle for self-expression." And didn't that sound all cultural and intelligent?

  "That's a well-thought-out concept," he said. "But I still think we should go to the symphony next time. I heard you might like that."

  Symphony. Next time. I liked the sound of those words. I gave James another sidelong glance. He dressed more casual today. Khaki pants, a v-neck sweater over a shirt. For a moment I wondered what he would look like in blue jeans.

  A light breeze tugged at my hair, but his didn't even budge thanks to the gel that held it firmly in place. I had to fight the temptation to mess it up a little.

  I guess I wasn't used to being around a man so well put together. It seemed a little odd, that was a
ll.

  "What kind of music do you like to listen to?" I asked, pulling my sweater around me. He reached around and adjusted it, his movements solicitous. This time he let his hand rest on my shoulder. The connection sent shivers down my spine.

  "I like Schubert."

  "Oh. Why is that?" I thought he would say blues or rock or classical, but Schubert?

  "What I appreciate the most about Schubert is his unfolding of long melodies both brusque and leisurely, the blessed earmark of Schubert's style." He gave me an embarrassed smile. "Sorry, I'm a big fan."

  "I see that," I said, looking ahead, trying desperately to think of anything near as intelligent I could say about my favourite group, All the Sons and Daughters. But I was drawing a blank beyond, "I like their music." If pushed I could comment on the light notes of grace and redemption I found in their music. I wasn't even going to mention my secret vice, Keith Urban.

  "Which classical composer do you like the best?" he asked me.

  I should have seen this coming. Think. Think. "Bach," I said with a sudden desperation. "I like Bach." I remember taking a course in college where we were told that Bach once said he wrote all his music for the glory of God and ever since then I thought he was cool. For a long-dead composer. I liked some of his music. The Hallelujah Chorus.

  Or did Handel write that? Think. Think.

  "Bach has some very moving pieces," James said, his hand ever so gently pulling me closer as he steered me past a hole in the sidewalk.

  I glanced up at him, surprised to find him looking down at me.

  Goodness, his eyelashes are almost longer than mine, I thought, letting myself hold his gaze, moving from friendly into "very interested" territory.

  His steps slowed. So did mine.

  He stopped, turned toward me. I stopped, facing him. It was quiet down here by the river. Restful. The wind sighed in the trees overhead, water burbled over the rocks.

  "You are a beautiful woman," James said, brushing my hair back from my face. "Fair tresses man's imperial race insnare, and beauty draws us with a single hair." Another smile. "Alexander Pope wrote that."

  Poetry. My knees went weak as I looked up into his hazel eyes, liking how they crinkled at the corners, as if he were ready to share a joke.