Beckett's Cinderella by Dixie Browning Page B

“Not worried exactly. It’s awful for business, of course. Mine and everyone else’s if they call for an evacuation, but I don’t think it’ll come to that. Uncle Fred says it’s going to veer offshore.”
    Liza willed her heart to slow down. She’d never been afraid of storms, anymore than she’d been afraid of heights. It was neither the storm nor the ladder that had her gasping for breath, trying to slow down a runaway pulse. If she had to fall, she’d rather fall off the roof than fall in love again. It would be far less painful.
    The first time it had happened she’d been eleven years old. Kermit Bryant—she’d never forgotten hisname—had edged his seat closer to hers, leaned over and sniffed loudly. He’d told her she smelled good. Thrilled and embarrassed, she’d blushed and scowled down at her paper. Then he told her she sure could run good for a girl. She’d been thinking of asking if he wanted half of her devil’s food cupcake when she’d caught him copying answers off her test paper.
    Tall and skinny, she’d never been wildly popular with the opposite sex, but she’d dated some in high school and college. The next time she’d fallen mindlessly in love, however, she’d been a sensible, mature and independent twenty-seven-year-old gallery assistant. They’d been introduced at a charity fund-raising concert and James Edwards had literally swept her off her feet when someone in front of her had spilled a drink. She’d known him all of five days before ending up in his bed.
    God help her if she ever did anything so stupid again.
    Now she caught herself staring at Beckett’s bristly jaw and wondering if it would grow out as black as his eyebrows. Embarrassed, she blurted, “Do you want coffee before you go?”
    Oh, God. She had all the savoir faire of a week-old gosling. His smile was so gentle she had to wonder if he’d read her mind.
    â€œI’ve already put you to enough trouble.”
    His khakis were wrinkled, the tail of his black knit shirt hanging out; his hair was standing on end, he needed a shave and he was barefoot. And at this moment if he’d asked her to undress and follow him intothe nearest bedroom, she wasn’t entirely sure she’d say no. Even rumpled, there was something remarkably appealing about him. He smelled warm and clean and real, the way a man should smell. James had adored cologne and used it with a lavish hand.
    Whatever it was with Lancelot Beckett that affected her the way it did, it was 100 percent natural. Pheromones. She hadn’t a clue about their chemical components, but they were clearly potent. That much she did know.
    â€œWe’re out of prunes again,” came a disgruntled complaint from the doorway.
    Liza closed her eyes, torn between laughter and tears. They went through this every morning. It took Uncle Fred awhile to assimilate new developments. At this particular moment, she could certainly empathize.
    â€œThey’re in the cereal cabinet, Uncle Fred. I’ll come show you.”
    â€œYoung man here for breakfast? That’s nice. Game starts at one. That new feller’s pitching. Reminds me of Maddux in the old days.”
    â€œThanks, but I can’t stay,” Beckett said. “As soon as I have a few words with Liza, I’ll be on my way.”
    Already hurrying into the house, Liza glanced over her shoulder, “I can’t talk now—I have to find Uncle Fred’s prunes, and then I have to dress and get ready to open up in case any stragglers stop by.” She paused long enough to say, “Look, do we really need to talk anymore? I think we’ve both said everything that needs saying.”
    â€œOne thing I learned a long time ago—when it comes to negotiations, you’re not finished until both sides agree that you’re finished, even if it’s only an agreement to disagree. So far we