have told you." Rosie groused. "Once you hear the word goal, you're unstoppable."
"Yeah, ain't it great?" Jonesy laughed. "So forget the delaying action. This guy is a real possibility, hunky, wealthy, and lonely, and a perfect candidate for you to kick off your campaign. Unless, of course, you've changed your mind and want to go after sexy Summerton? Like any sane woman would."
"No, I haven't changed my mind." Now all she had to do is get him out of it. Saturday. She'd find his blessed Gardenia and get out of his career path.
"So, are you in or out for tonight?"
Rosie tugged at her hair in a desperate attempt to locate the enthusiasm sector of her brain. No go. This was definitely an oh-why-not decision rather than the yes!—let's-do-it kind. Irritating. And all because of a pair of green eyes to die for.
And something was poking into her backside.
"Rosie?"
She reached under her behind and pulled out her glasses. Broken. Again. Of course it was Summerton's fault. Everything was Summerton's fault. Ever since he'd knocked on her door and tantalized her with that aphrodisiac aftershave he insisted he didn't wear, she'd been completely off kilter. Well, no more. He wasn't right for her. She wasn't right for him. That was the truth of the matter. It was time she thought of her kids, and past time for Summerton and his workaholic righteousness to get out of her life. She blew out a breath strong enough to tilt a windmill.
"I'm in," she said, then started searching her hair for a paper clip to repair her glasses. The damn things were never in the right place at the right time.
"Great," Jonesy said. "See you around three. I'd suggest we go shopping before we meet the guys, but knowing the current state of your finances, that would be irresponsible of me. So I'll drive you home after your doctor's appointment and pick you up again at six-thirty. I know you'll be driving again, but we might as well stick with one car. If Roland works out—"
"Who's Roland?"
"Your date, idiot."
"Oh, yeah. Right."
"If Roland works out," Jonesy repeated, enunciating carefully, "he can drive you home. If not, give me a high sign, and I'll do the honors. Okay?"
"Okay."
"And Rosaleen?"
"Uh-huh?"
"Try to curb your enthusiasm. You don't want to overwhelm the guy on the first date."
Rosie hung up the phone and went in search of a clip to fix her glasses. Roland? Were there actually men called Roland?
* * *
Kent tilted his head, then cupped his ear in an effort to hear whatever it was Vince Packard said. Something about following him. He nodded, and they walked a gauntlet of full tables, dropping apologies as they went. It was impossible to make headway without bumping into one chair or another at every turn.
Monk's was Friday-night jammed, and as noisy as a jet-test center. Hardly the place to discuss business. Kent looked around, eyes narrowing—unless it was monkey business. This place was definitely a singles hangout. He hated places like this. He hoped this wasn't an effort on Packard's part for some male bonding of the pick-up-chicks-and-party variety. If it was, he'd made a strategic error.
After they'd shouldered their way through the crowd, taken their seats, and ordered pre-dinner drinks, Packard left to find a quieter place to take a phone call. The waiter brought the drinks, and Kent nursed his, trying to figure out a way to cut this evening short and get back to Beachline. He had work to do. Most of which was Con's. He should damn well leave it for him. Do him good.
Kent imagined Con returning to Beachline from Hawaii and finding a stack of files on his desk high enough to obscure the view of the first tee. Every time he thought about Con his gut clenched, a knotted blend of anger and regret. Anger about the work Con didn't do, sure, but he also missed how it used to be when they'd bought the place. They'd worked together then, side-by-side in a effective partnership, and it had been great. Much as he hated to admit it, he
"Yeah, ain't it great?" Jonesy laughed. "So forget the delaying action. This guy is a real possibility, hunky, wealthy, and lonely, and a perfect candidate for you to kick off your campaign. Unless, of course, you've changed your mind and want to go after sexy Summerton? Like any sane woman would."
"No, I haven't changed my mind." Now all she had to do is get him out of it. Saturday. She'd find his blessed Gardenia and get out of his career path.
"So, are you in or out for tonight?"
Rosie tugged at her hair in a desperate attempt to locate the enthusiasm sector of her brain. No go. This was definitely an oh-why-not decision rather than the yes!—let's-do-it kind. Irritating. And all because of a pair of green eyes to die for.
And something was poking into her backside.
"Rosie?"
She reached under her behind and pulled out her glasses. Broken. Again. Of course it was Summerton's fault. Everything was Summerton's fault. Ever since he'd knocked on her door and tantalized her with that aphrodisiac aftershave he insisted he didn't wear, she'd been completely off kilter. Well, no more. He wasn't right for her. She wasn't right for him. That was the truth of the matter. It was time she thought of her kids, and past time for Summerton and his workaholic righteousness to get out of her life. She blew out a breath strong enough to tilt a windmill.
"I'm in," she said, then started searching her hair for a paper clip to repair her glasses. The damn things were never in the right place at the right time.
"Great," Jonesy said. "See you around three. I'd suggest we go shopping before we meet the guys, but knowing the current state of your finances, that would be irresponsible of me. So I'll drive you home after your doctor's appointment and pick you up again at six-thirty. I know you'll be driving again, but we might as well stick with one car. If Roland works out—"
"Who's Roland?"
"Your date, idiot."
"Oh, yeah. Right."
"If Roland works out," Jonesy repeated, enunciating carefully, "he can drive you home. If not, give me a high sign, and I'll do the honors. Okay?"
"Okay."
"And Rosaleen?"
"Uh-huh?"
"Try to curb your enthusiasm. You don't want to overwhelm the guy on the first date."
Rosie hung up the phone and went in search of a clip to fix her glasses. Roland? Were there actually men called Roland?
* * *
Kent tilted his head, then cupped his ear in an effort to hear whatever it was Vince Packard said. Something about following him. He nodded, and they walked a gauntlet of full tables, dropping apologies as they went. It was impossible to make headway without bumping into one chair or another at every turn.
Monk's was Friday-night jammed, and as noisy as a jet-test center. Hardly the place to discuss business. Kent looked around, eyes narrowing—unless it was monkey business. This place was definitely a singles hangout. He hated places like this. He hoped this wasn't an effort on Packard's part for some male bonding of the pick-up-chicks-and-party variety. If it was, he'd made a strategic error.
After they'd shouldered their way through the crowd, taken their seats, and ordered pre-dinner drinks, Packard left to find a quieter place to take a phone call. The waiter brought the drinks, and Kent nursed his, trying to figure out a way to cut this evening short and get back to Beachline. He had work to do. Most of which was Con's. He should damn well leave it for him. Do him good.
Kent imagined Con returning to Beachline from Hawaii and finding a stack of files on his desk high enough to obscure the view of the first tee. Every time he thought about Con his gut clenched, a knotted blend of anger and regret. Anger about the work Con didn't do, sure, but he also missed how it used to be when they'd bought the place. They'd worked together then, side-by-side in a effective partnership, and it had been great. Much as he hated to admit it, he
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