Father In Training. Сьюзен Мэллери
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Father in Training
Susan Mallery
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Sandy Walker had come to Glenwood for old-fashioned family values and a place to raise her children. She hadn’t expected to find a tall, dark stranger riding a Harley up her driveway.
She stood alone in front of her newly purchased house, right next to the two-year-old station wagon that had brought her and her three kids safely to the small town. She wasn’t nervous, exactly, she told herself as the man rode closer. She was...curious.
He stopped the motorcycle about ten feet from her car, killed the engine and expertly nudged the kickstand in place. Then he stood, straddling the bike. They grow ’em big in Glenwood, she thought dryly, wondering if she should be concerned. The man was a good head taller than her own five feet seven inches.
He reached up and removed his helmet. She’d half expected to see long hair spilling onto his shoulders, but instead he was clean-cut, with short, dark, wavy hair that would barely fall to the top of a dress-shirt collar. Aviator sunglasses hid his eyes. He had a square jaw and a slight smile teasing his lips.
“May I help you?” she asked formally, striving for her let’s-be-pleasant-but-I’m-a-little-busy tone.
“That was my line, Sandy.” The teasing smile broadened. He had a nice mouth and white teeth. He could be in one of those toothpaste ads. He could—
She took a step back. “You know my name?”
He reached for the zipper on his jacket, then pulled it down in one long smooth motion. “It hasn’t been that long, Sandy. Have you forgotten that everyone here knows everyone’s business? Word’s been out since the day you bought the old Michaelson place. Welcome home.”
The man spoke as if he knew her. She supposed he could have. She’d spent five years in Glenwood, from the time she was twelve until she left for college. She’d had lots of friends, although most of them had been female. Still, it wouldn’t have been difficult for this man to find out her name. The shiver of apprehension that slipped up her spine was the result of living in Los Angeles. People did things differently in Glenwood, she reminded herself. Neighbors were friendly, they cared about each other. That was why she’d moved back in the first place.
He’d finished unzipping his jacket. Now he shrugged out of it and swung his right leg clear of the motorcycle. He folded the garment and laid it across the seat, then turned toward her.
Sandy swallowed. Hard. It was a perfect summer afternoon, with the temperature creeping toward eighty. Bright sunlight flooded the front yard of her house, tall oak trees and a couple of pines cast long shadows on the driveway. She could smell flowers and freshly mowed grass. She could hear the chirping of birds and faint snatches of conversation from around back where her kids were exploring the property. It was all very ordinary.
So there was no reason for her heart to start pounding in her chest, her palms to get sweaty or her mouth to drop open. She was a completely rational, thirty-two-year-old woman who had never made a fool of herself over a man. Not even when she’d been a teenager. She’d never swooned over rock stars or guys in the movies. She was far too sensible to dream for what she could never possibly have. She’d never once felt weak at the knees. Until this moment. Until a guy on a Harley took off his black leather jacket and exposed the most incredible body she’d ever seen.
His red tank shirt emphasized the muscles in his arms and chest. He was tanned and broad, with the kind of strength that comes more from hard work than hours in a gym. Worn jeans closely fit the lower half of his body, outlining long legs and powerful thighs. Sunlight glinted off the silver tips of his cowboy boots. He looked like a male model. Better than that, he looked like a female fantasy come to life.
Maybe there was a photo shoot somewhere in town and he’d gotten lost. But that didn’t explain how he knew her name. Or what he was doing walking purposefully toward her.
She panicked and started backing up. “Who are you?” she demanded, clutching her car keys in her right hand and wondering if she should just make a run for it.
The man stopped less than two feet in front of her. He reached up and pulled off his sunglasses. “You don’t remember?” he asked, obviously disappointed.
Remember? He wasn’t the sort of man a woman would forget. Even one who didn’t consider herself the least bit romantic or given to feminine fancies.
Her gaze focused on his. Thick lashes framed impossibly dark eyes. Lines fanned out toward his temples as if he spent a lot of time smiling. He was good-looking enough to melt butter in a snowstorm. And familiar.
She blinked. The sense of horror started low in her belly and spread, like a rash. She’d been a widow for almost two years and in that time she’d never been tempted to look at a man twice. In all her life, she’d never been tempted to look at a man twice. Appearances weren’t that important to her. So why did she have to notice this particular man? Why now? Why him?
“I saw that,” the man said. “You do remember me.”
She blinked again. Lord have mercy. “Kyle Haynes,”