Open Invitation?. Karen Kendall

      His lips twitched. He didn’t appear to care! He swung one booted foot over another, crossing his legs.

      Thank you, God. “As I was saying, it’s not proper for you to…openly evaluate a woman like that.”

      “Like what?” he asked softly, a devilish smile now playing over his lips.

      “You know exactly what I mean. You weren’t discreet in the least.”

      “Is it proper, Miz London, to stare at a man’s equipment while he’s in your visitor’s chair?”

      She opened her mouth as fire rushed along her cheeks. She shut it again. She searched for the breath his words had knocked out of her body. Finally she was able to speak. “I did no such thing, Mr. Granger.”

      “Is that what you call a little white lie, Miz London? Because I call it a big ol’ fib.”

      “Mr. Granger!”

      “Ma’am?”

      She took a deep breath and steepled her fingers on her desk. “Even if I were lying, which I assure you that I am not, it is not socially correct to call me on the lie. Conversation should be smooth, and one steers away from topics which could be…”

      “Sticky?”

      Her nostrils flared and she did her very best not to glare at the man. “Difficult.”

      Apparently he decided to give her a respite, for he asked about the framed pictures on her wall. “Who’s the older couple?”

      “My grandparents, Sir Henry and Lisbeth London. He was British. She’s American. They met during World War II.”

      “Sir Henry?”

      “Yes. He was knighted by the queen for distinguished work in the sciences—meaning that he discovered a preservative for tinned meat. Not terribly glamorous, but useful.” She smiled.

      “No sh—uh, kidding! He musta made a killing off that.”

      “Mr. Granger, it’s not at all polite to comment about someone’s financial status—especially not face-to-face.”

      “All I said was—”

      “It can be construed as fishing for information.”

      “Well, don’t construe it that way, because I didn’t mean—and why can’t you say ‘take’? Nice, plain English.” He shook his head.

      Lilia tightened her lips. “One, when words have left your mouth, you have no control over how they are taken. Two, what isn’t plain English about the word ‘construe’? And three, Sir Henry didn’t file a patent in time, so he never made much off his preservative, sad to say. Which is why I have a job.”

      He folded his arms across his broad chest and uncrossed his long legs. His boot began to tap on the floor. “You’re very formal, Miz London.”

      “I’m an etiquette consultant, Mr. Granger. And I’m sorry if I’m annoying you, but you did come to me for guidance.” She gazed at him steadily.

      He didn’t growl, but he looked as if he wanted to. “Tell me about the younger couple in the other frame. The Asian lady and the officer.”

      She nodded. “My parents, Lieutenant Bryce and Su Yi London. They met while my father was stationed in Vietnam. He finished his first tour, then brought her home as his bride. They had six months together before he was called for a second tour. He didn’t return.”

      “I’m real sorry to hear that.”

      “Thank you.”

      “And your mother? Does she still live in the States?”

      “No. She died of a rare blood disorder when I was small. My grandmother raised me.” This conversation is getting too personal. “More coffee, Mr. Granger?”

      “Again, I’m sorry—uh, no thank you.”

      “A cookie? A strawberry?” She held out the tray to him. He selected a butter cookie and two large strawberries, putting them on his plate.

      He picked up a strawberry, cast a sidelong glance at her, and asked, “I don’t have to eat this with a fark or somethin’, do I?”

      He looked so boyish and uncertain that she chuckled. “No. You may grasp it by the stem and eat it—preferably in more than one bite.” She demonstrated by taking a small bite of her own strawberry.

      He brought the fruit to his lips and touched his tongue to it, rubbing the tip over the strawberry’s texture. Then his even, white teeth sank into it, slicing through the delicate flesh and taking it for his own.

      Lilia clamped her knees together yet again as a hot, unwelcome twinge occurred between her thighs.

      Granger licked juice from his bottom lip and devoured the rest of the strawberry while she secretly envied it and squirmed discreetly in her chair. Heaven help her if she sprouted a little green stem and matching jester’s collar.

      He tilted his head. “Are you feeling all right, Miz London?”

      “Why, I’m just fine, thank you.”

      “You sure? You look kinda like you have gas. Did you have a lot of these strawberries for breakfast or something?”

      Lilia didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. “Mr. Granger! That isn’t a socially acceptable thing to say, either. You must never, ever tell a lady that she looks as if she has indigestion.”

      “Why not just plain gas?”

      “It’s not at all polite! Never, ever mention bodily functions or discomforts of that nature—that’s simply appalling manners.”

      “You think I’m appalling?” asked her horrifying new client, holding out an open package of Rolaids.

      She shook her head. “No, thank you, Mr. Granger. I don’t require one of those—”

      “Well, I always take two. Used to have the constitution of a goat until I hit my thirties, but now…not that I was implying that you’re, uh, aging or anything.” He stopped, seeming to realize that he was only digging himself in deeper. Then he began to laugh.

      She stared at him in disbelief, fighting the urge to bang her forehead against the polished surface of the eighteenth-century card table.

      “I guess that wasn’t too smooth, was it?”

      “Correct.”

      “So you do think I’m appalling. That’s okay, my mother does, too. That’s why I’m here. Do I have to go sit in the corner, wearing the social dunce cap, now?”

      Lil took a deep breath. “Of course I don’t find you appalling. Your manners do, ah, need some work. But instead of sitting here and correcting you all day, I think it might be beneficial for you to watch some Cary Grant films. That is the general demeanor we’re aiming for, with you. We’ll take you from crude cowboy to gentleman rancher. His civilized persona is perfect.”

      “So right now I’m uncivilized.” He winked at her.

      “I didn’t say that. You’re a bit of a rogue, that’s all.”

      “Oh, I like that. Rogue is real nice and old-fashioned. Makes me want to grow a handlebar mustache and, you know, swashbuckle a little. Is swashbuckle a verb, Miz London? And if so, how do ya do it?”

      “I don’t have the faintest idea,” Lil said, a laugh escaping her at the ridiculous concept.

      “To swashbuckle, or not to swashbuckle, that is the question…” Granger threw his arms wide and leaned back dramatically in her visitor’s chair.

      The ominous creak of before became a loud crack, and the Queen Anne disintegrated under his weight.

      Speechless, Lilia jumped up, her hand over her