Real Marriage Material. Jodi O'Donnell

his hair’s arrangement, making him seem a little less wild, although—strangely— no less appealing.

      He’d been leaning back against the actual bar, fingers tucked into his front pockets, and he straightened at the sight of her, appearing both relieved and apprehensive at her arrival. As if one minute longer and he’d have bolted, appointment or no. She.couldn’t imagine why.

      Unless there really was another reason behind this meeting.

      “Sorry I’m late,” she apologized once she’d made her way to his side. She caught the whiff of a spicy after-shave. Too much of it, she thought.

      “No problem. I didn’t have anything urgent to get back to.”

      Despite that assurance, he seemed a bit restless to be on his way. Vaguely disappointed, Mariah pulled the pamphlet out of her purse and handed it to him. “I’ve gone ahead and marked a few of the simpler braids to start out with.”

      “Good…good.” Jeb nodded rather emphatically.

      “And please, tell Robin she can keep it.”

      “Fine, I will. She’ll like that.” He stared at the booklet in his hands and shifted from one foot to the other. Definitely restless.

      “Well, if that’s all—”

      “I…Would you like to sit down for a while?” he said on a rush. “I mean, have a drink? Although, we might have trouble finding a seat with the after-work bunch comin’ in.”

      Mariah contained her surprise, along with the small jolt of pleasure his suggestion generated in her. “That would be nice.”

      Briefly he looked taken aback, as if he’d expected a different answer. Then he nodded again and, almost in afterthought, extended a hand in front of him. “After you.”

      Mariah took in the rustic surroundings and clientele as she scanned the admittedly overfull room for an open table. She’d never been to this establishment before, on the out-skirts of Denison. It evidently catered to the blue-collar crowd—or actually, the T-shirted, Western-boot-shod and cowboy-hatted crowd, with a few billed gimme caps sprinkled throughout. Pitchers of draft beer seemed to be the beverage of choice. Smoke and the kick-it-out beat of a country song filled the air, making the place seem even more congested. Peanut shells crunched under the soles of her low-heeled pumps as she and Jeb made their way through the throng, most of whom stared frankly—and rudely—at her out-of-place attire, a pale peach linen pantsuit over a cream-colored shell of raw silk.

      She jumped at the brush of his breath on her cheek as he bent to say into her ear, “I’ve only been here a few times, and I would’ve suggested a different place to meet you at, but I flat couldn’t think of one. I don’t come into town that often, y’see.” He hesitated. “If you’d like, we can go some place else that’s more, you know, your style.”

      “No, every place in town is just as packed this time of day,” Mariah told him, pulling away from him. But the crowd’s scrutiny made her a little jittery. Or maybe it was the scrutiny of a man who’d claimed he didn’t find women like her “real riveting.” Of course, he’d been speaking of his late sister-in-law, but Mariah had caught his meaning. And despite herself, such judgment of her had hurt, even coming from the kind of man she might least expect to understand.

      “This is fine,” she said tightly, her pleasure at his unexpected invitation waning. “Really.”

      Turquoise blue eyes marked her expression, and he answered with his own tight “Whatever you say.”

      Finally they spotted a table, a tiny one back in the far corner. Taking the chair next to the wall, she pushed back her hair. She’d only recently taken to wearing it down on occasion, or in one of the less traditional braids. Then she recalled Jeb’s other remark about his late sister-in-law, of her being able to let her hair down once in a while. She hastened to explain, “I was at a soccer match.”

      “A soccer match?” With difficulty, Jeb squeezed into the chair next to her. Elbows bumped, knees brushed, gazes collided in unspoken apology and she became physically even more aware of this man.

      So nothing had changed for either of them. Jeb Albright still had every bit of that tangible sexuality she’d perceived the other day. But what struck Mariah now was how that image continued to lure her in. Abruptly the feel of his roughened hands holding hers was revived. There had been an earthy honesty in that touch, uncultivated but quite genuine, and she experienced again the apprehension it had raised in her—that such sexuality had a power that could not be denied.

      “The son of one of my clients plays in a junior soccer league,” she found herself babbling, in an attempt to escape her thoughts, “and I videotape his games. Both parents work in Dallas and find it difficult to get away for the matches.”

      Scooping her hair over one shoulder to finger-comb it into order, she continued with some pride, “Watching a tape isn’t as good as being there, but they tell me it’s become a family ritual, with full commentary and instant replays. Apparently the boy thinks he’s living the best of both worlds, getting to sit at his parents’ sides as they watch him play.”

      “You can actually make a livin’ doing that? Taping the kid’s games, I mean?” Jeb asked, his expression one of amazement—or skepticism, which called up their inauspicious first meeting, when he’d been so dubious of her ability to help him.