Nobody's Business (Nobody Romances) (13 page)

Okay, they were pink gingham booties with fur linings, but
still, Lyn would have preferred a pair of strappy sandals or even
some really harsh kickbutt boots. Yeah. A man who oozed machismo the way Mr. Sawyer did? He'd probably love a woman in
thigh-high black leather numbers.

She shook her head at her own bizarre thoughts, and her
oversize reading glasses slid down the edge of her nose. Oh,
great. Maxine to the max.

But if her appearance disappointed him, he didn't show it.
He simply grinned and held up the bag again. "Where should
I set this up?"

A lump rose in her throat, and she swallowed hard. "You're
kidding, right?"

He slowly shook his head, that quirky smile never leaving
his face. "Nope. You agreed to the race. And then you lost."

How could such a large, imposing bulk of a man appear so
boyish and unassuming? And so ... appealing. He had to leave.
Now. Before she agreed to let him stay.

"I didn't lose. I was injured." Which, in her opinion, nullified their so-called bet and the ensuing date.

"Just your hamstring. Not your appetite, right?"

Her brain stumbled.

Before she could form a coherent argument, Mrs. Bascomb's
maple syrup tone oozed into the conversation. "Lyn, honey?
Aren't you going to introduce me to your young man?"

"He's not-"

"I'm sorry." Doug ducked his head in Mrs. Bascomb's direction. "I'd shake your hand, but I'm still getting the hang of
this thing." He indicated his false arm, and the fingers actually folded into the palm, as if ashamed of themselves.

Mrs. Bascomb tittered. "That's quite all right, sir."

"I'm Doug. Doug Sawyer. Ski-Hab student, current champion in a downhill race with Ms. Hill, and now, I'm her dinner
date."

"Well, good for you!" Mrs. Bascomb leaned toward Lyn and
gave an exaggerated wink. "Good for both of you."

No, no, no. The evening had just nosedived from miserable
to catastrophic. As soon as she walked out the inn's front door,
Mrs. Bascomb would blab this juicy gossip all over the town.
For the next six months, Lyn wouldn't be able to buy milk without someone stopping her for details about the big bad wolf of a
man who'd showed up at her doorstep with a take-out dinner.

"I'm Mrs. Bascomb, by the way. But you can call me
Eleanor."

Eleanor? Even after all these years, after all they'd experienced together, Lyn hadn't earned the honor of calling Mrs. Bascomb by her first name. And Doug got favored-nation status within five minutes?

Snap! The fire crackled, munching on dry wood in the hearth.
Sparks lit up the air, then faded to bits of gray ash.

But ... wait. Even before she dealt with Mrs. Bascomb, she
had to clear up a few pertinent details with Mr. Sawyer.

Tilting her head, she studied him from a new angle. "How
did you know where I live?"

He shrugged but never lost eye contact. "Ace told me you ran
a bed-and-breakfast called Snowed Inn. The cab did the rest."

"The cab?"

"Well, yeah." His gaze flickered from Lyn to the door and
back again. "I don't have the whole driving-with-prosthesis thing
down yet. Certainly not enough to risk slippery roads and snow
squalls."

"Right." Heat rushed to her cheeks. Way to make him feel
like an invalid, Lyn. "Of course."

"Lucky for me, the driver not only knew where you live, but
he knew you personally."

"He did?" Oh, God. It had to be Larry, who'd harbored a
not-so-secret crush on her since she and Marc first moved here.
Of course, his wife of forty-five years nipped any romantic
intentions Larry had in the bud. But that didn't stop him from
naming himself her Happiness Fairy, in charge of making her
smile again at all costs.

"He sure did. Right down to your favorite restaurant."

Yup, that would definitely be Larry.

"So he stopped at Winterberry's Cafe for me. I hope you don't
mind, but I chose lobster bisque and a grilled vegetable panini
for you. Fancy way of saying soup and a sandwich. Hearty, but
light. I figured the painkillers would knock out your appetite to
some degree. They had that effect on me. Made everything taste
like soap."

The pills might have curbed her appetite, but they hadn't
completely erased her brain's higher functions. She shot a hand
toward him. "Hold up. I'll grant you, Larry is a font of information when it comes to me, but he's not a doctor. So how'd you
know about my hamstring? And the painkillers?"

Ruddy color filled his angular cheeks. "Oh, well, umm ...
let's just say your local hospital's not big on confidentiality."

She bolted upright. Pain sliced across her back, but she stifled
a wince in favor of moral outrage. "They disclosed my condition
to you?"

His gaze fell to his feet. "No. More like they didn't secure
your chart as well as they should have."

Mrs. Bascomb's chuckles erupted before Lyn could accuse
him of spying on her.

"Clever as well as handsome," the old woman remarked. "Be
careful, Lyn. This one could romance your heart out of you in
no time."

Through the veil of her lashes, Lyn stole a glance at his
chiseled features, the boyish grin, the eagerness in his incredible eyes. Her heart somersaulted in her chest.

He was so different from Marc, so polar opposite the fineboned European gentleman who'd swept her off her feet with
soft words and candlelight. Mr. Sawyer was brash and bold,
more likely to use a club and sling her over his shoulder.

And yet, he somehow plucked the same heartstrings she'd
assumed would only ever play for Marc.

That was exactly what terrified her.

Doug knew an ally when he saw one. He might have lost
Ace's approval by pursuing this story, but in Eleanor Bascomb,
he'd gained a one-woman army of unwavering support. And
even better, an illuminated entry into Brooklyn Raine's dark
well of secrets.

"Eleanor?" He held up the bag. "Since my date's incapacitated and I only work at seventy percent efficiency these days,
do you think you could give me some help in the kitchen?"

Eleanor grinned. "I'd love to. Let me just take off my coat.
You go right through there." She pointed to a narrow hallway
with a closed door at the end. "Ignore the `Employees Only'
sign on that door and go on inside. I'll be there in a minute."

"Umm..." He glanced at the door, noted the latched handle, then turned back to the woman in the loud plaid coat. "I
think I'll wait for you."

"No, go on-" The older woman cut herself off. Her curious
gaze burned a trail from his right shoulder to the useless appendage dangling at his side. His skin itched from her scrutiny, but he steeled himself to remain perfectly still and wait.
In the sudden silence, the grandfather clock behind him ticked
off time in earsplitting increments.

"Slap my head and hear the rattle," Eleanor exclaimed at last.
"How stupid of me. You're a Ski-Hab student, so you're still getting used to your prosthesis. I'm so sorry. Come along. My coat
can wait. I'll help you inside first."

Her ludicrous neon green boots thumpety-thumped across
the wooden floor. As she passed him, he caught a whiff of old-lady perfume. And mothballs. The strong, noxious scent
tickled his nostrils, and he sneezed. Since his left hand still
cradled the bag from Winterberry's, his right hand shot up to
cover his mouth. Automatically. Instinctively.

"Bless you," both ladies said in unison.

Doug barely registered their words. He paused, the palm of
his prosthetic hand near his lips, the sensation strange in more
ways than one.

Well, I'll be. The impulses actually work.

And the lifelike exterior really did feel like skin. Too bitter
at the time, he'd paid little attention to the bio-designers who'd
fussed over him, gushing about all the wondrous, up-to-date
features his prosthetic arm had. Now he had an inkling as to
why they'd been in geek heaven. He stared at the hand at the end
of his jacket sleeve. He had to admit, the gadget was incredibly
realistic looking. Right down to the fingers complete with
knuckles, nails, and fingerprints. The technological world had
come a long way since the days of Captain Hook. Slowly, he
lowered the medical marvel to his side, almost by subconscious
thought alone. Like a normal person.

Aside from their initial response, Lyn and Eleanor showed
no additional visible reaction, thank God. They didn't even seem
to notice his sudden bewilderment. But then, why would they?
Nothing unusual to them in preventing the spread of germs and
being polite in social situations.

But for him, the simple gesture was nothing short of miraculous. For him, his ability to cover his mouth when he sneezed
was a cause for celebration.

He looked up, smiled, and murmured his thanks to the two
women. As the flash of realization burned brighter inside him,
his smile widened. With all the celebrities and sports stars
he'd known, all the friends and few family members he had,
he could think of no one better with whom he wanted to share
this moment than Brooklyn Raine.

Of course, right now, she looked pretty zonked. Glassy-eyed,
quiet, so unlike the ski dynamo he knew from years past-and a
few hours ago. But that was understandable. After all, she'd been
bested by the one-armed bunny-slope graduate.

Yeah, yeah. The painkillers influenced her sleepy condition,
not wounded pride.

And hey. If he were the disreputable type, he could ply her
with a glass or two of wine and have her entire life story in less
than an hour.

"Ahem!" Eleanor's forced throat-clearing refocused his attention. "Come along, lover boy. Let's get your dinner date off
on the right foot."

Lover boy? He stifled an exhale of annoyance. "Could we
just stick with Doug, if you don't mind?"

Her rusty chortles echoed through the hallway, abrading
his nape. "What? You've got a problem with `lover boy'?"

Umm ... yeah. Could she have come up with a more harmless nickname? He supposed it was a good thing, then, he wasn't
the disreputable type.

On an exaggerated sigh, she pushed open the door. "I suppose
we can stick with Doug, if that's what you prefer." She flipped on
the light switch, and illuminated a room of stainless steel appliances, copper pots hanging from the ceiling, golden oak cabinetry, and miles of Corian counter space.

Wow. He'd seen smaller kitchens in army mess halls.

"Who's she feeding in this place?" he asked as he set the
bag down on the nearest counter. "The NFL?"

"Well, athletes, for sure." Eleanor bustled from one set of
cabinets to another, pulling out utensils, silverware, and linens.
"Skiers in the winter. In the warmer months, it's hikers, canoers,
and mountain climbers. This is a bed-and-breakfast, meaning
breakfast is included in the accommodations. Lunch isn't. Everyone loves a bargain. Meals are no exception. And Lyn's savvy
enough to know that a good, hearty breakfast keeps her customers happy and coming back for more. Not only that, most of our
guests need a lot of fuel to handle Mother Nature's challenges
here. Even the peepers have a habit of tanking up before leaving
for the day."

"Peepers?" Unzipping his parka, he blinked in confusion.
"What's a-?"

"Leaf peepers. The tourists who come in the fall to see the
foliage."

Before he could form an argument, she reached up to his collar and yanked the winter jacket off his shoulders and down his
arms.

His nose twitched at that same dangerous mix of moldy
flowers and mothballs, but he held back the second sneeze to a
snort.

"I know I shouldn't complain about them," she said in a low
whisper.

Clearly, she'd misinterpreted the noise he'd made.

"They bring a lot of dollars into this community," she added.
"Especially the peepers. They buy maple syrup, cheddar cheese,
fruits and vegetables, bales of hay for decorating their big-city
homes. Even my dime bags disappear fast during peak foliage
time."

Her ... what? "I'm sorry." He shook his head, resisted the
urge to pound out whatever clogged his ears. He could've sworn
she'd said ... "Your what?"

"My dime bags." Her caustic laughter erupted again.
"Change purses, silly. My craft group and I make all kinds of
hand-knitted goodies to sell at fairs and local events: afghans,
scarves, hats, and change purses. We started calling the purses
dime bags-you know, like a bag to hold dimes-and the city
people thought the name hilarious. Sort of an `Oh, look how
quaint the dumb local yokels are' secret they savored. Now we
have little labels we attach that say, `Handcrafted by the
Dime Bag Knitting Club,' and we can't make them fast enough.
Last year, we sold more than three hundred in October alone.
Enough to pay for two brand-new range-of-motion machines
for the Ski-Hab program. Those big hydra-whatevers?"

"Hydrokinesis machines." Over the last week, Doug had
spent plenty of time in the wave pools used to strengthen balance and motion.