Slow Ride. Carrie Alexander
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a finger and put her mouth up against the microphone, dropping her voice to a husky intimate tone. “Sleeping arrangements to be determined by private consultation.” She went on to list amenities such as private pool and spa, plus a number of gratis appointments for massages and facials and a tee time at the golf course. Finally she signaled for a drumroll before reaching into the basket.
To a cheer and the crash of a cymbal, Maureen waved the chosen bright pink ticket overhead. Her chiffon sleeves fluttered. “And our winner is—” she unfolded the paper “—number one hundred seventy-eight!”
Rory was poking through her purse, looking for Mikki’s keys.
Tucker gripped her elbow. “That’s us. One seventy-eight.”
“Oh, no. I’m sure you’re mistaken. We’re one eighty-seven…”
“Tucker Schulz,” Maureen read off the ticket. “And Rory Constable! Woohoo, Rory!” She put a hand over her eyes and searched the crowd. “Is that you, honey? Come on up and get your prize.”
Suddenly, Mikki was pushing Rory toward the stage and Tucker had her hand, helping her up the steps. She felt herself flushing, going awkward and tongue-tied, the way she often did when she was the center of attention. Her desire to be more self-assured was not always matched by the execution.
“Rory is the owner of San Francisco’s own Lavender Field, the chain of bakeries that supplied the desserts that those of you not on low-carb diets have been enjoying tonight.” Maureen’s boisterous laugh rang out. She gave Rory a hug before returning to the mike. “And Tuck is an electrician who’s promised to wire Baxter House free of charge. Let’s give our lucky couple a hand, folks. We couldn’t have selected a more deserving pair.”
Tucker said “Thanks” into the microphone.
Rory plastered a smile on her face, then gave a little wave at Mikki, who was swinging a fist in the air, hooting and hollering.
Maureen took over again and thanked everyone for their support for the cause so dear to her heart.
Gratefully out of the spotlight, Rory faded away to the side of the stage. “I can’t believe we won. And you didn’t even want to—” The words choked off.
Tucker stood directly in front of her, his fingertips resting on her bare arms, burning holes in her concentration. “Didn’t want to…?”
“Be my key partner,” she blurted.
“What makes you say that?”
“I saw you exchange keys with some drunken guy. Before, near the bar.”
An expression that looked a lot like guilt bled into Tucker’s face. “I wasn’t avoiding you, Rory. The guy approached me. I didn’t know him from Adam, but he’d had no luck with his key and he, uh, I guess his eye was on a certain woman…”
“And your key fit her lock? That makes no sense.”
Tucker hesitated. “My original key may not have, but he knew his didn’t. He’d tried his key on her. And everyone else.”
“Except me.” Rory tipped her chin up. The hell if she’d let him see her humiliation at being considered the very least desirable woman in Clementine’s. This was worse than being picked last for dodgeball in gym class, but at least it hadn’t been Tucker who’d avoided her then. Tucker, a man she still found extremely attractive, despite her attempts not to.
She continued blindly. “He persuaded you to take me—my locket, I mean.”
“Didn’t take much persuading.” Tucker’s eyes gleamed. “I was perfectly willing to exchange.”
“Oh.” She blinked, realizing the full implications. Tucker had switched keys knowing that he was likely to be her match.
Out of the goodness of his heart, she reminded herself, should her libido decide to reengage over the gentlemanly gesture. Because they were friends.
He ducked his chin to peer into her eyes. “Okay?” His voice was soft, warm. Kind. Not his fault that her heartbeat ratcheted up several notches every time he looked at her.
“Okay,” she said, giving him a quick nod.
He grinned. “You’re my lucky number. We’ll have a great time in Mendocino.”
Rory held her tongue. She could deal with being his friend if she had to, but doing so while undergoing three days of body-baring sun and fun?
That was asking too much of her.
Or not enough—if he was serious about the hands-off policy.
3
A BLAST OF COLD water hit Tucker’s shins, streaming all over his flip-flops. “Hey!” He stepped out of the spray, removed his wet sandals and shook them off on the plot of grass that was the lawn. “What was that for?”
“I’m waking you up,” said Sam, the hose-wielder and Tuck’s eldest brother. “No one turns down a free weekend in Mendocino.”
It was late Sunday afternoon in the narrow backyard of his parents’ venerable Victorian row house, where the day’s allotment of sunshine was slowly being diffused by an incoming fog. They’d taken the kids beachcombing after church.
Upon the clan’s return home in their fleet of vehicles, the women had immediately gone inside to work on dinner while banishing the men outdoors with orders to hose off the munchkins. Tuck’s nieces and nephews had brought half of the beach with them in their sandy skin, clothes and hair. The other half was on the floor mats of his pickup.
“Free carries a high price when there are too many strings attached,” he said, sorry that he’d brought up the events at the key party. But his siblings had already known that he’d gone and there had been no way Didi would let him get away without offering up a full report.
“What strings?” Sam said. “You’re so stringless you don’t even wear sneakers.”
Tuck lobbed one of the flip-flops at his brother, who caught the sandal with a squidging noise and immediately tossed it to the family dog, Chuckie Doll. The Golden Retriever sank his teeth into the rubber sole and ran off to have himself a good chew, feathered tail wagging.
“Thanks a lot, you bastard.”
Sam was unconcerned. “Punishment for lying.”
“Who’s lying?”
“You know you want to go.”
Tuck raked a hand through his hair, trying to line up his pinball reactions to Rory. He should have called game over, but he kept bouncing around instead, rebounding between reasons for and against seeing her again. “Let’s put it this way. Have you ever known a woman to go away for the weekend and not throw out a few strings?”
“Been known to happen.” Sam got a fond look on his face. For all that he looked like a suburban forty-something dad in khakis with graying hair, in his early twenties Sam had been a bachelor about town. Women had got hot at the sight of him in his fire-fighting gear. A few of the conquests from his past had even accused him of being a player, a point Sam’s wife brought up with glee whenever she was in a snarky mood.
“Not with this woman.” Tuck shook his head. Rory was the marriage-minded type. Although the memory of their dance made his sunburned toes curl into the cool grass, so did the look in her eye when the subject of babies had been brought up. There might come a day when he was ready for that, but not yet.
Sam remained skeptical. “You met her at a key party, for chrissake. I never thought I’d see the day you turned into a hipster.”
“I had to go.” Tuck thanked his lucky stars Sam hadn’t seen him in the silk shirt. “Blame Nolan. He’s sniffing after Mikki again.”
Sam nodded. Nolan had grown up with the Schulzes, almost one of the family. He’d seemed to be