talked to the way he carried himself across a
room. She wondered if he realized that nearly every woman in the restaurant was captivated by him, sliding sideways glances
his way behind reading glasses and dessert menus.
She was starting to think she was the only woman in Lexington who was immune to his good looks and casual charm. Lucky
for her, she'd gotten a glimpse of the scoundrel behind the smile before succumbing to his questionable charm. She had Heath,
and she had no desire to get mixed up with the likes of Jack Stillman, a confirmed ladies' man, with whom she would also be
working. She was warming to the idea of him starring in Tremont's commercials—women found him irresistible, it seemed.
But she still didn't trust him. The man was trouble, a rebel if she'd ever seen one, determined to have his way.
She supposed he was the same with women. Swallowing more of the dry wine, she conceded that in another place, another
time, she herself might have responded to his allure, his unrefined good looks, his smooth tongue. The mere fact that she was
aware of him physically, however, didn't alarm her, because knowledge was power. Subsequently, she made a pact with
herself as the meal progressed to keep this man at a distance with whatever emotional tools she had handy—a sharp tongue, a
cold shoulder—to preempt such an impossible situation. Who had said the best defense was a good offense? Probably some
neurotic single woman afraid of losing herself to a man. Maybe Lana, after the Bill Friar incident.
"Are you sure you feel like driving?" Jack asked an hour later when they emerged from the restaurant.
"I didn't drink much more than you did," she said, giving in to her need to lean on his arm to combat her sudden
lightheadedness.
"But I ate a full meal," he said. "And I outweigh you by at least a hundred pounds."
She blinked, trying to clear her head. "I'll be fine." She certainly wouldn't drive in this condition, but neither did she want
Jack to take her home. She'd wait in her car until he left, then walk back into the restaurant and call a cab.
"Looks like the decision was made for you," Jack said when they approached her car, pointing to a steel device locked onto
her rear wheel.
"Oh, no, they booted my car?"
"The city's new alternative to towing," he said, nodding with no apparent concern. "It's saving us thousands in tax dollars."
"Oh, shut up," she snapped, then gestured wildly. "When I pulled in, the guy leaving this spot said it was paid for for the rest
of the evening." She groaned, then kicked the device, which sent pain shooting up her leg. "Ow, ow, ow!"
"Don't hurt yourself," he said, laughing, which only fueled her ire. While she limped in a circle, Jack pulled out a piece of
paper to write down the number on the neon sticker plastered onto her window. "Looks like it's too late to call now, but you'll
get it straightened out in the morning, and your car should be safe here overnight. Meanwhile, I'll take you home."
She stopped and straightened. "I … don't like motorcycles."
"Have you ever been on one?"
"No." Motorcycles were too … risky. Jack was too risky.
"It's just like riding with the top down on your convertible," Jack cajoled, steering her toward the bike.
Now didn't seem like the time to admit she'd only put the top down a handful of times, twice to get ficus trees home from the
nursery. She lifted her index finger when an idea came to her. "I don't have a helmet."
"I have a spare," he said, unlocking a storage box behind the seat.
"But … there isn't enough room for me."
To her dismay, Jack turned her around to peruse her backside, then said, "I think we'll be able to squeeze you on board."
She continued to claim she'd rather call a taxi even as he lowered a helmet to her head. Her bun was a painful obstacle.
"Ow!"
He looked amused. "Looks like you might actually have to let your hair down."
In response to his sarcasm, she withdrew two pins and released her
room. She wondered if he realized that nearly every woman in the restaurant was captivated by him, sliding sideways glances
his way behind reading glasses and dessert menus.
She was starting to think she was the only woman in Lexington who was immune to his good looks and casual charm. Lucky
for her, she'd gotten a glimpse of the scoundrel behind the smile before succumbing to his questionable charm. She had Heath,
and she had no desire to get mixed up with the likes of Jack Stillman, a confirmed ladies' man, with whom she would also be
working. She was warming to the idea of him starring in Tremont's commercials—women found him irresistible, it seemed.
But she still didn't trust him. The man was trouble, a rebel if she'd ever seen one, determined to have his way.
She supposed he was the same with women. Swallowing more of the dry wine, she conceded that in another place, another
time, she herself might have responded to his allure, his unrefined good looks, his smooth tongue. The mere fact that she was
aware of him physically, however, didn't alarm her, because knowledge was power. Subsequently, she made a pact with
herself as the meal progressed to keep this man at a distance with whatever emotional tools she had handy—a sharp tongue, a
cold shoulder—to preempt such an impossible situation. Who had said the best defense was a good offense? Probably some
neurotic single woman afraid of losing herself to a man. Maybe Lana, after the Bill Friar incident.
"Are you sure you feel like driving?" Jack asked an hour later when they emerged from the restaurant.
"I didn't drink much more than you did," she said, giving in to her need to lean on his arm to combat her sudden
lightheadedness.
"But I ate a full meal," he said. "And I outweigh you by at least a hundred pounds."
She blinked, trying to clear her head. "I'll be fine." She certainly wouldn't drive in this condition, but neither did she want
Jack to take her home. She'd wait in her car until he left, then walk back into the restaurant and call a cab.
"Looks like the decision was made for you," Jack said when they approached her car, pointing to a steel device locked onto
her rear wheel.
"Oh, no, they booted my car?"
"The city's new alternative to towing," he said, nodding with no apparent concern. "It's saving us thousands in tax dollars."
"Oh, shut up," she snapped, then gestured wildly. "When I pulled in, the guy leaving this spot said it was paid for for the rest
of the evening." She groaned, then kicked the device, which sent pain shooting up her leg. "Ow, ow, ow!"
"Don't hurt yourself," he said, laughing, which only fueled her ire. While she limped in a circle, Jack pulled out a piece of
paper to write down the number on the neon sticker plastered onto her window. "Looks like it's too late to call now, but you'll
get it straightened out in the morning, and your car should be safe here overnight. Meanwhile, I'll take you home."
She stopped and straightened. "I … don't like motorcycles."
"Have you ever been on one?"
"No." Motorcycles were too … risky. Jack was too risky.
"It's just like riding with the top down on your convertible," Jack cajoled, steering her toward the bike.
Now didn't seem like the time to admit she'd only put the top down a handful of times, twice to get ficus trees home from the
nursery. She lifted her index finger when an idea came to her. "I don't have a helmet."
"I have a spare," he said, unlocking a storage box behind the seat.
"But … there isn't enough room for me."
To her dismay, Jack turned her around to peruse her backside, then said, "I think we'll be able to squeeze you on board."
She continued to claim she'd rather call a taxi even as he lowered a helmet to her head. Her bun was a painful obstacle.
"Ow!"
He looked amused. "Looks like you might actually have to let your hair down."
In response to his sarcasm, she withdrew two pins and released her
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