Can't Fight This Feeling. Christie Ridgway

turquoise—that warmed with pleasure as she looked him over, too.

      His hands itched to snatch her up and kiss her. Instead, his fingers tightened on the brown bag and the crinkling sound had them both redirecting their gazes to what he held. His arm lifted. “I brought us lunch.”

      “You did?” Her mouth curved and he didn’t think he was wrong that it was delight that turned up the corners of those pretty lips.

      “I did. I needed a break and thought maybe you could take a little time off, too.”

      She grimaced. “I don’t have anyone to take my place.”

      “Oh.” Ridiculous to feel so deflated. After all, he understood what it required to build a business and keep one going.

      “But if you don’t mind sitting with me by the register...” she started.

      “Would love to,” he said, and followed her lead to the glass-topped counter at the side of the store.

      She dragged a stool toward him, the plastic seat advertising a waterproofing product. Hers was matching except it promoted an automatic sprinkler system. “What’d you bring?” she asked, glancing toward the bag.

      He scratched at the whiskers on his jaw. “I hope you don’t think this was cheating.”

      Her brows rose. “Oh?”

      “I asked at the deli two doors down for your favorite sandwich.” He reached into the bag. “Tuna salad on rye.” With a flourish, he set the wax-paper-wrapped package before her.

      She stared at it.

      “I was trying to make a good impression.” Had the clerk got it wrong entirely? Maybe Glory was allergic to fish. Maybe the seeds in the rye bread got stuck in her dentures.

      Then she looked up at him, her smile dazzling, her teeth obviously all her own. “Nobody has put out that kind of effort to please me in...maybe never.”

      “Not never,” he scoffed.

      Her smile still digging a dimple into her now-pink cheek, she unwrapped the paper around her sandwich, neatly cut in the middle. “And two pickles!”

      “You have to have two pickles, one for each half.” He pulled out his own meal—avocado, turkey and Swiss on sourdough.

      Glancing over, he saw Glory was staring at him. “Nobody gets the double pickle thing. Did they tell you I always order that way at the deli?”

      “Nope. It’s the way I always order at the deli.”

      Her eyes narrowed, suspicious. “Are you trying to pick me up again?”

      “With double-dill breath? I don’t think so.” He crunched into the first sour gherkin.

      With a little laugh, she applied herself again to her meal. They ate a few bites in companionable silence until she broke it. “Still painting, I see.”

      He held out his speckled hands. “Yep. How about you? How’s your day been going?”

      “We received a shipment of red, white and blue bunting. I carry the decorations—but starting in May, not September. A frustrating phone call later, I think it’s straightened out.”

      Kyle’s sandwich was the best he’d ever eaten. Or maybe that was the company. He grinned at her. “I heard you talking quite knowledgeably about toilet repairs.”

      She shook her head. “Now that’s an image a girl wants to put in a guy’s head.”

      His grin widened. “No, no. I was quite impressed. How do you know that stuff?”

      “My dad. I’m hopeless at keeping our back storeroom organized—or so says my friend Angelica who works here part-time—but I’m aces when it comes to advising on how to fix things. Reps come into the store and talk to me about products and I’ve gone to a seminar or two, but the best learning begins at home. Since I could walk, I’ve been helping my dad around the house.”

      “No ‘girls play with dolls and boys with tools,’ huh?”

      She shook her head. “No boys in the family. I’m the lonely only.”

      Kyle tilted his head. “Are you? Lonely, that is.”

      Pursing her pretty lips, she shook her head. “I don’t know how I could be. I’ve got customers coming in and out of the store all day long. Not to mention my retired—” she made air quotes around the word with her fingers “—dad popping in all the time to comment upon my business practices.”

      Kyle knew from experience a person could be lonely anywhere: in a packed boardroom, among the tables of a bustling company cafeteria, pounding out miles on a treadmill in a busy state-of-the-art gym.

      On a sigh, Glory touched a finger to the nearby revolving display rack from which hung floatable key rings. “Take this stand for example. In summer, two rows of the chains are fine, they’re very popular. But now that winter’s coming on, on the lower rung I added a selection of miniature flashlights that you can hook to your ring. Dad did not like it.” She made a stern face and lowered her voice. “All the flashlights are situated in Aisle F and always have been.”

      Kyle could commiserate. His own parents hadn’t liked change either, especially the changes he wanted to make to his life. He’d been on the Scott-beaten path to a medical career and then diverted to go his own way. He’d tried to explain his interests to them, but they thought their field was the only one of value, and at best they’d been bored by his shop talk.

      Most women he’d tried dating hadn’t understood about business, either. They’d been impressed by money but not the man. Of course, he’d not had a chance to meet them as Kyle Scott, house painter, but still, he thought this instant connection he felt with Glory was...special.

      She reached over and plucked one of the spare pennies sitting in the ashtray next to the register. “For your thoughts,” she said, sliding it close.

      He put his hand over hers. At her jolt of reaction he almost lost his hold, but he curled his fingers under her palm and gently squeezed. “I’m thinking I like you, Glory Hallett.”

      She wrinkled her nose at him. “Are you sure, or are you just trying to butter me up?” she asked, her voice light. “Tell me the state of the toilet at that house you’re painting.”

      “As far as I know, my ballcock is in prime working order.”

      Her face turned pink even as she laughed. “Do you even know what a ballcock is?”

      “Sweetheart.” He gave her a look of gentle reproof.

      “Oh, you.” Now her face went really red. “You’re being so bad.”

      “Not in the slightest,” he protested, enjoying himself to the utmost. “I didn’t say a word when you asked about buttering you up.”

      She laughed out loud now. “And I thought the double dill had lifted my mood. I’ve got to admit it’s in the stratosphere now.”

      “Yeah?” He smiled at her.

      As if suddenly shy, Glory glanced down. Then her chin came up and her turquoise eyes were aimed right at his. “Yeah.”

      God, she enchanted the hell out of him. He let go of her hand so they could return to their lunch. But they continued to talk, him asking questions about the products he could see on the nearby shelves. She gestured with her pickle and munched on her tuna-and-rye and he watched her every gesture with an avid gaze.

      Glory, Glory, his inner voice commented. Hallelujah!

      Then a customer came in, interrupting their private bubble. With an apologetic look, she slid off her stool to help the older gentleman who wanted parts for his pond pump. Kyle finished up his sandwich and finally, reluctantly stood. The house wasn’t going to paint itself.

      Glory waved the