Pride And Pregnancy. Karen Templeton
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here soley to make sure you wouldn’t die of thirst.”
A tiny smile made a brief appearance. “No?”
“No. You were right the other night, when you made that comment about it having been a long time for me. I haven’t even gone out with another woman since my wife died.”
The dirt clod exploded like a supernova; her gaze touched his. “You’re kidding?”
“Nope.”
She stilled, clearly on the alert. “And what does this have to do with me?”
“Well…Blake—the guy who helped me move in?—suggested that maybe I needed someone—a woman, I mean—to practice on before I plunged back into the dating scene.” He lifted the bottle in her direction. “And since you live right next door, he thought maybe you might be that woman.”
Karleen barked out a laugh, then said, “And I can’t believe you’re dumb enough to say that to a woman with a shovel in her hands.”
“I mean to talk to, what did you think I—? Oh.” His mouth flatlined. Maybe the haze hadn’t cleared as much as he’d thought. Good to know the hormones were still flowing, but the perpetual leaky faucet sucked. “Sorry. That didn’t come out exactly the way I heard it in my head.”
She stabbed the shovel into a hard section of ground, balancing on it like a pogo stick until it sank. “Well, if that boneheaded attempt you just made is any indication, your conversational skills could definitely use some fine-tuning. But why me, exactly? Besides the convenience factor, that is.”
“Because I figure if I can handle a conversation with you, I can handle one with anybody.”
That got another laugh, this one a little less scary, and the faucet started dripping harder. After living with a woman for nearly ten years, not to mention four years of celibacy since, Troy knew damn well he wasn’t one of those men who thought about sex 24/7. But as he watched Karleen bend over to snag the water bottle and his eyes went right to her soft, round backside, he realized that it definitely hummed in the background like a computer operating system—unseen but always on.
Her lips glistened from her sip of water. Yeah, that was helping. “You mean to tell me,” she said, “that you haven’t so much as talked to another woman in all this time.”
“Not in the man-woman sense, no.”
“And what’s really pathetic,” she said with a smile that only underscored her words, “is that I actually believe you.”
“Thanks. I think.”
“Although…you’re not doing so bad right now.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah. Got off to a bit of a bumpy start, but you recovered nicely enough.” She took another swallow of the water, then made a face. Troy frowned.
“It’s bottled water, how bad can it be?”
“It’s not the water, it’s that wussy music you’re listening to.”
“What’s wrong with it?”
“Other than I keep thinkin’ somebody’s about to say, ‘The doctor will see you now’? Not a thing. Music’s supposed to get your juices flowin’, sugar, not put you to sleep.”
Troy let out a slightly pained laugh. “Trust me, between my work and keeping track of my sons and…other things—” uh, boy “—my juices flow just fine, thank you. I want something to calm my nerves,” he said with a pointed glance over at the loud country music issuing from her patio, “not frazzle them more than they already are.”
She’d picked up her shovel again; now she leaned both hands on the end of the handle, striking a pose that could only be described as sassy. Troy didn’t do sassy.
He didn’t think.
“You got somethin’ against country?” she said.
“When it’s loud enough to rattle windows in Phoenix? Yeah.”
Karleen looked back over her shoulder, considering. “I suppose I could turn it down. But…” Then she glanced up at him, the sassiness half melted into something that, once again, sent all those crazy hormones running for cover. “The CD’s almost done, you mind if I let it run out?”
“No, of course not.”
“Thanks. But tell you what…how about we agree not to play music outside at all? Unless the other one’s not around, I mean?”
“Deal. Oh, and sorry about the kids earlier.” When she frowned, he prompted, “About the garden?
The shovel stabbed at the dirt, but she glanced up from under the hat’s brim. “They’re just bein’ little kids, it’s no big deal. And anyway, since it’s not even an issue for at least another month, I’m not worried.”
“You should be. Trust me, those two take bugging to a whole new level. They work as a team—one stops to take a breath, the other one effortlessly fills the gap.”
She laughed, then straightened up, looking in the boys’ direction. “Which one’s which?”
Troy studied her face for several seconds, as if to commit what he saw there to memory. Deciphering could come later. Then he followed her gaze. “Grady’s the bigger, more outgoing one. The instigator. Scotty’s always been more cautious. Unlike his brother, he tends to at least think about things before getting in trouble.”
“Aww…they sound a lot like my friend Joanna’s twins. Real different personalities.” She twisted around, one hand clamped around the handle, the other pointing to a spot a few feet away. “How about we give them their own garden, over there? They could plant a pumpkin vine, kids always get a kick out of that.”
Troy frowned. “You don’t have to do that. I mean, it’s a great idea, but I could easily do a garden for them, too. It looks like the former owners had a plot over against the back wall.”
“Forget it. That soil’s crap, they could never get anything to grow. And I don’t mind. Really. It’ll be fun.”
The conversation stalled. She kept digging. Troy picked up his water bottle. “Well, I guess I’ll be going,” he said, turning away.
“You tryin’ to dig up those old roses along the back?”
He wheeled around far more eagerly than he should have. “Trying being the operative word.” The ancient bush had sent out dozens of treacherous, thorn-smothered runners into the yard. “I’m beginning to think nothing short of napalm’s going to work. But things growing wild bug me. And I want to get as much done around here before I have to go back to work next week.”
She tossed him a funny look, then said, “I was wondering how somebody in your position was able to take so much time off.” When he frowned, she shrugged and said, “Google. And a nosy best friend.”
“Ah,” he said, then responded, “state-of-the-art home office. And besides, I can take so much time off now because I had basically no life for the first five years we were trying to get the business off the ground.” Then boldness struck and he asked, “And what do you do?”
One shoulder hitched. “I’m a personal shopper.”
“Really?” He looked at her house, which while much smaller than his, still wasn’t exactly a mud hut. The overzealous outdoor kitsch notwithstanding. “You must do pretty well yourself.”
Her eyes followed his. “I do okay.” Her brows knitted together for a moment, then she said, pain faintly pin-pricking her words, “Ex Number Three apparently decided letting me stay after the divorce was worth bein’ rid of me.”
“He didn’t like country music, either?”
A laugh burbled from her throat, producing a small glow of triumph in the